


Kick Me While I'm Down

by plant_s



Category: South Park
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), M/M, Starting Over, getting to know each other again, post college
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 08:53:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28740555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plant_s/pseuds/plant_s
Summary: It's hard, moving back home and having to start back over after living eight years out of Colorado. Craig indended to only stay a few months, save some money, but his old group of friends have other plans.
Relationships: Clyde Donovan/Craig Tucker
Comments: 10
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

It stings, the slow roll up his mother’s driveway. In fact, the whole drive stung, but this was the worst of it. The steady house that sits in front of him, marking the physical end. Craig grips his steering wheel, his foot still pressing against the brake pedal. He leans his head back against the headrest and takes in a deep shaky breath. He knows he’s being dramatic, but allows himself a pass, just this once. 

Craig feels his throat constrict, like he’s being choked by an invisible ghost, and, he might as well be for all he knows. After 8 short years, he’s back home. It’s unfortunate. It’s biting. It’s down right pathetic. Craig forces the stinging in his eyes to subside, opting to clench his jaw, a habit he knows he needs to break. But then again, he is giving himself a drama pass so he might as well go all in, bad habits included. 

After counting to fifteen, he puts his car in park, and then gets out. Opening up the trunk of his car, Craig retrieves his last remaining possessions; two duffel bags and a box full of old art pieces he couldn’t part with. Most of them are originals from his old friends, and who knows, maybe one day they’ll be worth something. More importantly, they’re trinkets of a better time in his life. 

Craig elbows the doorbell, and after a moment the door cracks open. Craig’s mother stands in the doorway, wearing a bitter sweet smile. “Hey, is there more I can help with?” She asks as Craig huffs the duffel bag on his right shoulder. 

“No, I sold everything else.” Craig answers as he walks in his old childhood home. He takes in the view, not much has changed since the last time he was here after his parent’s divorce. Craig had helped his mom fix the place up, mostly with new furniture to add a nice modern flair, and he parted with a few landscape portraits to replace the old bitter family pictures. The divorce had not been far fetched, his parents were on the rocks for a while, but nevertheless sour. Craig catches himself staring at the foot of the stairs, lost in thought about the last time he’s spoken to his father. It’s been a while. 

“I fixed up your room, I assumed you would have wanted to stay there.” 

Craig nods, not looking back at his mom as he walks up to his old room. Once in his room, he softly kicks the door close and sets the box near his, or rather now his mom’s, desk. She makes greeting cards now. It’s a cute hobby, though a bit sad. Next to the box, he shoulders off his duffel bags. Now on the floor, Craig stares at them, feeling heavy still even with the weight off him. Finally the exhaustion of a never ending drive hits Craig. He shuffles over to the bed, toes his shoes off, and then lays down, pulling the navy blue comforter over his head. 

_I need to get my shit together _, Craig thinks while pulling his phone out of his pocket. There’s about eight notifications on the lock screen, three of which are from his closest friends from California, two from Twitter, and the rest emails. Craig decides to ignore everything, still holding on to his make-believe drama pass from earlier, and opts for a sad pity nap instead. Maybe he’ll wake up back in Irvine and this whole experience can be chalked up to a bad trip, like the time his three apartments ago ex-roommate lied about giving him PCP. Yeah, it’s just like that.__

____

__

— 

Craig wallowed in his misery for a week. Every application rejection just added more and more of a strain on his mental psyche. He did everything he could; he updated his LinkedIn, rearranged his website to reflect his new location, as well as updating his professional social media pages. He sent out a few more applications at smaller, “homier”, studios, but still no luck. 

_This is a soulless place _, Craig thinks as he stares at the “Sorry, but we think you’re overqualified for this position...” response on his laptop from some shitty amateur portrait studio. Was Craig “overqualified”? One hundred times yes. But there aren’t too many options for a Film and Media Studies major in this shitty small town. Craig had half a second where his fingers twitched to write a catty yet pleading response of reconsideration, but he refrained and deleted the email.__

_____ _

____

Back to the search it is. Craig sips on his homemade cold brew and realizes how shitty the coffee in his mother’s house is. Nevertheless he continues scrolling down the “Photography Jobs Near Me” results. It’s awfully dreadful, especially now that everyone with an iPhone 11 is a “freelance photographer”. It should be easy to find work, people love getting their photos taken, but Craig knows all too well people don’t want to dole out the cost of professional photos. Not to mention the people of South Park aren’t at all similar to the clientele he’s worked with in Irvine. 

Finally after a half hour passes, and all his dignity muted, he settles on filling out one more application for a photo studio part time seasonal employee at Target. Fucking _Target _. Craig feels the heat creeping against his neck at how utterly embarrassing this ordeal is, but desperate times are desperate times. _It’s just a few months _, he tells himself completely nonreassuring, It can’t be that bad.____

_____ _

_____ _

Craig reminds himself that he has the portfolio to back his resumé up, he shouldn’t be worried. But he is. There’s nothing really practical separating him from the other artsy douchebags of South Park. In a way, it’s nostalgic. It brings him back to when he was in his junior year, and everyone was scrambling for internships. Of course not just any internships, but internships to brag about. He remembers being so stressed to hear back from the studios he applied to, and the crushing disappointment of being rejected or overlooked. Ah, to be 20 again. Craig catches himself clenching his jaw again at the memory, and snaps his laptop shut. 

With that last ditch hope of an application done, and out of the way, Craig decides he needs a pick-me-up to quell his swimming stomach. This past week all he’s done is lounge around in his joggers he spent too much money on to look comfortable, and the same black sweater that’s just a tad too baggier to be worn in public. Craig pulls his phone out and searches for the nearest cafe, as he’s craving something sweet and a better coffee. He humors himself by looking at the Tweek Bros. website. It’s atrocious, from how the navigation is set up to the color scheme. How are people even supposed to see the whole menu If the drop down option doesn’t work?

It doesn’t matter, Craig supposes, since the coffee selection apparently had gotten better (according to the website). There is also a small selection of “locally made” tea treats. It’s a shame, how whoever took these pictures made the coffee cake and scones look so unappetizing. But maybe that’s just how they look. Either way, Craig decides to go, on the sole reason that maybe he can squeeze a customer out of whoever was still running the place. A quick shower and a change of clothes later, Craig is walking out of his house. 

He has some fond, yet distant, memories of hanging out there for study nights with his old gang of friends. Tweek and Craig were close growing, but now it’s been almost eight years since they have seen each other. That’s a lot of time for someone to spiral down hill. Craig frowns as he pulls into the parking lot. The outside of the building looks the same, not much has changed, and that seems to be a running, but unsurprising, theme. 

Craig sighs, and tries, miserably, to quash the weird anxiety he feels. Why is he anxious? He doesn’t know, except he does. After Clyde’s wedding, he told himself to get away from this old life and to cut everyone out. And that’s just what he did. He cut everyone out, aside from his family, of course. Tweek tried, for a while, with rambling, conspiracy latten messages. Craig almost felt bad for the guy, but he needed space from South Park. Like, a lot of space, so sorry Tweek. Craig realizes he’s clenching his jaw again. He sighs again, and then puts his car in reverse. Maybe some other time. 

—

Craig looks at himself in the mirror, still off put by his new uniform. Red really isn’t his color, and he knows it. It doesn’t bring out his eyes the way dark tones do. Not to mention he had to spend money he doesn’t have on several new additions to his wardrobe that he likely won’t wear besides at work. Fingering the hem of his sweater, Craig scrunches his nose up at the sight of the offending outfit. But, he has no choice, although the dress code is more relaxed, red is required. It’s just a couple of months, he tells himself for what feels like the millionth time since he first parked in his mother’s driveway. 

Patting his back pocket for his phone and keys, Craig makes his way down the stairs. He gives his mom a wave as she calls out for him to have a good day. It’s just the beginning of the holiday season and every typical nuclear family with 2.5 kids is out to get their seasonal portraits taken. So no, it won’t be a good day. It’ll be a day full of trying to cull screaming children and telling unenthusiastic, bitter dads to at least look like they like their family. 

“Craig, is that you?” 

As soon as that voice registers, Craig feels his body freeze mid-step, derailing his morbid train of thought. Craig turns his head to see exactly who he knows called out to him. His voice has changed slightly with age, but it’s undoubtedly Clyde Donovan who’s standing there, holding two wooden chairs, each one propped on his shoulder, their legs sticking up framing his face. Craig stands there, unsure of what to do. His instincts kick in, an urge to ignore Clyde and get in his car tingles in his legs, but he remains still. Clyde smiles as he walks up his father’s lawn to the edge of the property line. 

“H-hey,” Craig forces out as Clyde approaches. 

“I’m surprised I was able to catch you while you’re visiting.” Clyde laughs, the two chairs threatening to wobble off although they’re secure in Clyde’s grip. 

“Oh, well, I’m not visiting.” Craig avoids Clyde’s soft hazel eyes by looking down at his shoe, scuffing it against his mother’s driveway. Clyde is a bit fatter than what Craig remembers, but nothing overtly unattractive. His hair is longer than he used to keep it, just past his ears. It doesn’t look bad, per say, though it’s a bit unkempt. Craig notices Clyde’s clothes were messy; the shirt had some sort of opaque stain all over and his jeans looked unintentionally ripped at odd angles. 

“I live here now, but I’m going to be late for work, so see ya.” Craig turns to his car before Clyde can initiate a full conversation, feeling his mid morning lunch churn at how incredibly awkward this event is. 

“Well, we should hang out sometime if you’re living here again!” Clyde shouts as Craig shuts his car door. Craig gives a curt nod, throws his car in reverse, and attempts to make it obvious he has no intention of speaking with Clyde. Craig has successfully blocked Clyde out of his life for so long, he has no desire to open that can of worms again, no matter what sick twisted fate awaits him. 

In a way, he knew bumping into Clyde would be inevitable as Clyde’s father still lives next door to Craig’s mother. Not to mention they chat often, a fact Craig cringes at. There’s nothing more embarrassing than having your parent keep in touch with your ex-best friend’s parent. Craig is also painfully aware that Clyde is a daddy’s boy, and has blubbered to his father to pester Craig’s mother to pester Craig on why he suddenly blocked his old group of friends out of his life after Clyde’s fairytale wedding. Clyde has always been a bit of cry baby and can’t really take a hint, something Craig has always resented Clyde for. 

At the time, Craig had a good excuse; he lived in California, not Colorado, and if he chose not to speak to someone it was that simple. Distance was Craig’s greatest alibi. But now that he’s here… and now that Clyde knows Craig is here to stay for the time being, well. It’s a different story. Craig wonders how far Clyde would be willing to go to speak with him. Clyde, much like Tweek, tried for a while to maintain a relationship with Craig. Eventually he gave up, but he held out much longer than Craig would have thought. He catches himself clenching his jaw, and frowns, his eyes straining to focus on the task at hand. 

Shaking the horrific train of thought to the side, Craig slips in the desk of the photo studio. While the old Macintosh boots up, Craig grabs the inventory clipboard off its hook near his desk and makes his way to his coworker who he is relieving. It’s not a long list, but it’s important to keep record, he knew that before his corporate overlords drilled the importance of loss prevention into him during his training though. Craig’s coworker gives a quick “See ya man.” as he walks out after signing for the equipment, Craig just nods. 

After logging his credentials in the system, Craig checks the schedule. There’s a little more than a handful of appointments for the afternoon, but nothing that will make for a particularly trying day. Craig did notice there was an appointment for a “new mommy” shoot and felt depressed. How sad would it be to find out that your mom celebrated her maternity shoot at a dingy Target studio? Craig is thankful he never has to know, he does not want children. 

When Craig first started, it became quite apparent to his trainer that Craig knew more than the trainer about equipment, posing, and lighting. Soon word spread through the 3 person team and Craig was offered a management position, as the team leader split her time between the Photo and Tech departments. Begrudgingly Craig accepted; he was thankful to be able to work at his own pace as a leader, not to mention the higher pay, but telling people he was a manager at Target really isn’t something to be proud of. 

While waiting for the next appointment, that should be here in about an hour, Craig watches out the one way glass into the store. He should be editing his last appointment’s session photos, but as the holidays approach in the upcoming weeks the traffic of the store has increased. It’s distracting. Craig hasn’t spent the holidays at his own home for quite some time. He turns his gaze back to the smiling family on his computer screen. Something in his stomach churns, it’s not necessarily nostalgia, but maybe annoyance? Jealousy? 

_I think I’m just fucking lonely _.__

__

__

__

Craig opens his mouth, stretching out his clenched jaw, and hears a small pop. All this stress about moving back to his shitty small town, full of his old shitty small town friends has really gotten to him. He’ll have to start wearing his night guard again if this keeps up. Craig forces himself to focus on editing, lest he continue to dwell on his dental problems caused by nervous habits. 

It’s nice having people who don’t know what the hell they want. In most cases, there would be a problem, but not in this case. It made Craig’s job easier, as posing became a quick “Stand here, face this direction, smile”, instead of tedious clients who refuse to end the session after the first three snaps of the shutter. Most people coming in are the former, making for quick appointments with minimal props. It’s really sad, how some people get excited over choosing the generic backgrounds offered before the shoot, but of course Craig can’t judge. He’s not the one getting his picture taken at a Target. 

Half way through his last session before his 4:30 break, he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. It’s not unusual, but the contents of the message made Craig lose his desire for the shitty ancient grain bowl he bought just a few moments ago. 

Sender: Unknown  
_Hey! Your mom gave me your number, hope that’s cool. Are you free after work? We should grab a drink and catch up! :)_

____

____

Craig knows there’s only one possibility on who could have sent this message. So this is it, not even one day passes after their unceremonious encounter, and Clyde’s gone and begged Craig’s mother for his number. Craig sighs, cradling his head in his hands, ancient grain bowl long forgotten. Through his suffering, Craig forces himself to consciously not clench his jaw. His night guard is a pain in the ass. 

“Hey you okay?” 

Craig looks up from his self pity to see his fellow manager, the one who runs between Tech and Photo. Craig looks back at his phone laying next to his cold lunch. “Do you know how to get rid of a parasite?” he asks aloud, not really expecting an answer. 

His coworker gives him a confused look, eyeing his stomach in particular. “What kind are we talking?”

“An annoying one. One who’s so nice it’s borderline retarded. One who can’t really take a hint.” 

“Hmm,” she turns back to her lunch, stirring her own _Lean Cuisine _with a plastic fork. Craig tries not to judge, but he had gotten so used to bringing his own utensils everywhere in California that seeing unnecessary waste bothers him. “Is this an ex?”__

____

____

Craig, through his short time here, had immediately gotten along with Cathy. She’s older than him by about 15 years, is a butch lesbian, and has two dogs. In his kinship with her, he has spilled a few details of his past life in California. She moved to South Park for her, now ex, wife and never really made it out of this hell hole. Cathy doesn’t ask unnecessary questions, and neither does Craig. 

“No, well, not in the traditional sense. We used to be best friends. His dad still lives next door to my mom.” 

Cathy taps her plastic fork against her lips, thinking. “Well, you could still ignore him,” 

Craig shakes his head, lowering his face again. He squeezes his palm against his eyes. “Clyde’s dumb, if he hasn’t gotten the hint by now, he never will.” 

“I guess all you can do is see what he wants,” Cathy shrugs, turning back to her lunch. Craig gives himself a minute before doing the same, as now twenty of his thirty minute break has gone by. 

— 

By the time he gets home it’s close to nine at night. He finds his mom sitting on the sofa, local news on the tv and cheesy murder mystery book in hand. 

“Why did you give Clyde my phone number?” Craig asks, irritated, slipping his shoes off by the door. 

“Well, good evening to you too,” his mother responds, slipping her book mark in and setting the book on the coffee table. Craig scowls, making his way to the chair adjacent to the sofa. 

“Craig, he just wants to be friends again. What happened between the two of you was years ago, let it go.” 

Craig scowls even harder, his nervous habit of clenching his jaw coming back. “I don’t want to talk to him.” 

Craig’s mother raises a brow. “He should be the one pissed off at you, I don’t know why you’re being an asshole.” 

“I’m not being an asshole,” Craig retorts quickly, folding his arms. He leans against the back of the chair, knowing he is, in fact, being an asshole. 

“You are. Look, I just didn’t want things to be weird over thanksgiving, when Rodger and Clyde come over.” 

Craig feels his stomach sink. What the hell? He must have not heard things correctly, but out of all the things fucked up with him, his hearing isn’t fucked up. “You’re not serious. Are you dating Clyde’s dad?” 

His mother laughs, or rather cackles, settling more comfortably on the sofa. “Oh no, not at all. But we do spend some holidays together, as friends. It gets lonely when your asshole adult children don’t visit.” 

“Okay,” Craig says, having enough of this asinine conversation. As he makes his way back to his room, his mother calls out another apathetic “Just get a drink with him!” 

Craig answers this by slamming his door closed. Great, the normal amount of anxiety associated with the holiday season can now be amplified by the clingy wet blanket that is Clyde Donovan. Craig is thankful he works half a day on thanksgiving, and won’t be home until dinner time. All the awkwardness that is the Donovan’s can be his mother’s problem for most of the day. Dealing with douchebags who are out during thanksgiving is one thing, but he’ll take it over spending the day milling around the living room and watching whatever shitty football game is on. 

Craig finishes getting ready for bed, slipping into his sleeping pants, and crawling miserably into bed. He paws his phone off the nightstand and opens up the message Clyde had sent earlier that day. Craig stares at it until his phone blacks out. What hell was he supposed to say? _Sure Clyde, let’s hang out again. It’ll just be like when we were 18 again! It won’t be fucking awkward and awful at all. How’s being married treating you and the mrs’s?_

____

____

Craig sighs, since when did he care what happened? It’s been a while since he’s been so embarrassed. In fact, ever since he’s come back home he’s been nothing but embarrassed. He has no reason to be, especially with Clyde. Clyde always looked at Craig like he was the coolest person on the planet, he even mentioned that on occasion too. It didn’t matter what cringy fad Craig had gotten into, or whatever terrible idea they cooked up, Clyde always followed Craig through. Of course, this was mostly during their childhood, but still through high school Clyde stuck by Craig’s hip. 

Without any more consideration, Craig sent a short message: 

To: Unknown  
_I get out of work at 8 on Wednesday._

____

____

—

Three days came and went. Here Craig sat at his desk, editing another happy family’s Christmas card. The pathetic “winter wonderland” background they had chosen looked abysmal, even by Target standards. Feeling some inkling of charity, Craig took it upon himself to photoshop a few sparkling snowflakes in, and added a few background penguins. In reality, Craig just missed this part of editing, being able to flex his photoshop skills and turn a piece of shit set into something worth looking at. He’s come a long way from copy and pasting clip art off Google images on grainy pictures of Stripe. 

His eyes flicker down to the time, 7:38. Usually Craig would be closing things down, he’s not one to linger past his due time. In fact, he and Cathy have an unspoken rule to close early on occasion. But today was Wednesday, and subsequently that means getting a beer with Clyde, at fucking Skeeter’s. That place was a shit hole when he was a kid, there’s no telling what the atmosphere is now. So Craig returns to his screen, adding in a few finishing touches. He takes his time shutting the computers off and doing an extra once over of the equipment. 

By the time he closes the studio it is well past 8. As Craig gets into his car, he briefly prays to be in a car accident, but then quickly rescinds this notion. If anything happens to his car he’d be fucked more than he already is. Pulling up to the sketchy bar, Craig allows himself a minute to decompress in the parking lot, even though he is late. Maybe he took so long Clyde has left. Wishful thinking, but not his luck. 

Clyde is sitting at the bar, a pint glass in hand. Craig can see he’s watching football and talking to the bartender. He feels like an outsider, walking up to the bartop, partly because he is an outsider, but also because everyone in the bar is all dressed in the same country bumpkin attire. Craig is painfully aware his Baja hoodie and corduroys made him stick out. He keeps his gaze forward on Clyde’s wide back as he strides forward, not wanting to draw more attention than he already has. 

Pulling the seat next to Clyde seems to have done the trick for Clyde to finally notice Craig’s presence. He has his beer pulled up to his lips, the foam head sticking to his upper lip as he smiles through his sip. “Hey man, I was wondering where you were at.” Clyde laughs. 

“Oh well, work was long.” Technically this wasn’t a lie, so Craig did not feel bad for being late. 

“Haha, yeah I know how that can be. What do you do now? Are you still in the restaurant business?” Clyde asks, turning now to face Craig. Craig had been a waiter during his first semester of college before quickly figuring out customer service was not his strong suit. To be fair, he knew that before, but there aren’t many opportunities for an eighteen year old that don’t involve serving the general public. 

“No, I actually work in photography and media design.” This again, was not a lie, but Craig did feel a little scummy as he neglected to mention Target at all. The bartender takes Craig’s order, a vodka cranberry with two limes. 

“Hey, did you want to split a basket of wings with me?” Clyde asks as the bartender hands Craig his drink. Craig squeezes the limes in the light red mixture, and then proceeds to drink the entire contents of the five ounce glass. Craig can feel both the bartender’s and Clyde’s eyes on him as he does this, though he does not feel shame. “Not necessarily, and can I get another one of these, please?” Craig finally answers, handing the glass back to the bartender. 

“Oh well, I’m going to get an order, so if you want some, feel free.” Clyde says placing his order for fifteen Buffalo wings, with an extra ranch and no celery. 

After receiving his second drink, Craig squeezes his limes in but takes his time stirring the juice around. It’s quiet between the two of them. Craig notices they are the only quiet people in the bar, everything around them is painfully loud. Out of the corner of his eye, he can tell Clyde is antsy; the way he’s leaning up on the bar top and shifting his shoulders. 

“It’s not that I don’t want any, I can’t really eat those anymore.” Sighing into his cup, Craig breaks the silence. Clyde looks over from the game he is watching back to Craig, waiting for a follow up. 

“I have an autoimmune disorder.” 

Clyde balks, his mouth open. “You have cancer?” 

“No Clyde, I don’t have cancer-” 

“Is that why you moved back home?” Clyde continues, cutting Craig off. Craig grips his drink in favor of his jaw. 

“I don’t have cancer Clyde, I have Crohn’s disease.” Craig downs the rest of his second drink. Clyde takes this as a que to also chug the rest of his beer. They order another round just as Clyde’s wings are delivered. Craig watches, partly in disgust, as Clyde begins to dig into the basket of fried grease in front of him. There’s a faint ghost pain in his stomach at just the sight. 

Craig returns to watching the football game in front of him. He is aware that he could be more engaged, as that would expedite the end of this event, but he waits for his buzz to hit before initiating more conversation. 

“I’ve never heard of crow’s disease. Are you, like, going to die soon?” 

“It’s _Crohn’s _, not crow. And no, unfortunately. All it does is keep me skinny because I shit my brains out if I eat the wrong thing.”__

____

____

Craig catches Clyde eye him up and down, a wing still in his saucy hand. Craig quickly averts his gaze back to the football game. “Hmmm, you’ve always been pretty skinny.” 

“Yeah, I guess. You’ve always been the fatter one between us.” Craig couldn’t help it, the words just came out. Immediately he felt guilty. Clyde used to be so sensitive about his weight, especially in middle school. “I mean, you’re not like obese fat. Just broad, you know- husky.” 

Craig sighs, returning back to his third drink. It’s not like he cares, Clyde is practically a stranger at this point, but for some reason his subconscious doesn’t believe that. Clyde took the insult surprising well, laughing. Craig watches as Clyde sucks the sauce off his fingers. 

“Dude don’t worry. I know I’ve gained a few pounds. S’not a big deal.” For emphasis, Clyde raises his pint glass up, gestures it in Craig’s direction, and then takes a gulp from it. Craig checks his phone, because what the hell else is he supposed to do? This evening has been awkward enough, he just wants to go home. 

“Is there a time Bebe wants you back?” Craig asks, pocketing his phone. It was only nine. Clyde stops mid chew of his wing, slowly lowering it from his lips back to the basket. Again, he licks the sauce from his fingers. Again, Craig is mildly disgusted. 

“Uh, what do you mean?” Clyde asks, now wiping his saliva covered fingers with the previously untouched pile of napkins the bartender has left. 

“I’m asking when you need to go home and see your wife.” The words sting as they leave Craig’s mouth. This was the exact reason he stayed in California and never wanted to come back. He isn’t sure why, even after these years, saying the word “wife” leaves him bitter. 

Clyde reaches for his beer and kind of swirls the glass, creating a new layer of thin head atop the cheap beer. “Uh, Craig,” Clyde mutters, turning to face him fully now. Craig realizes the seriousness of Clyde’s tone and turns to face him too. 

“Bebe and I got a divorce, like three years ago.” 

The buzz that Craig has been craving all evening suddenly left him just as quickly as it came on. He doesn’t know how to react, or how to take this news. It isn’t particularly juicy or inflammatory, people get divorced all the time. Hell, his parents got a divorce. But for some reason, Craig actually felt sad for Clyde. It wasn’t an overwhelming sadness, but it was there. Clyde had been with Bebe, on and off, for probably ten years. Middle school, high school, and eventually their marriage at the tender age of 20. They were destined for each other. 

Craig had been the best man, although he did a shitty job at it. He performed the physical duties to the best of his ability, from the bachelor party to the wedding planning assigned to him, he even helped plan the actual engagement. But inside he felt bitter, spiteful, and shamefully jealous. He wasn’t happy at all for the couple, and as a result almost unintentionally ruined their wedding by being a drunk husk of a man. 

All that feels so long ago now, the memory almost seems unreal. But the news now, of their divorce, has kicked all the wind out of his lungs. 

“Oh, I hadn’t heard about that.” Is all Craig can manage out after he realizes he’s been silent for too long. Clyde shrugs, metaphorically, or perhaps even physically, shaking the awkwardness of the situation off. 

“Dude it happens, it was mutual even. We’re still friends.” 

All Craig can manage is a small “oh” in response. He stirs his drink, absentmindedly. 

“So no, I don’t have to be back home at a certain time.” Clyde says, in an attempt to bring Craig back into the conversation. Craig doesn’t take the bait, in fact he doesn’t even see it. The only thing he feels is his three drinks threatening to come up. 

It’s quiet between the two of them, Clyde nervously looking between Craig and the football game. Craig keeps his tired eyes on his empty glass, using the straw to push the melting ice around. He doesn’t know what to say, but it’s different this time; where in the beginning it was apathy, now there’s only emptiness. Clyde is single again, but that doesn’t change many other factors, still Craig’s heart aches. For what? He doesn’t want to think about it. 

“So, uh, do you want to see my website?” Clyde asks awkwardly during the commercial break. It’s now, that it occurs to Craig, that he does not know what Clyde does for a living. Craig looks up from his watery drink, over at Clyde. Clyde pulls out his phone, a small smile tugging at his lips as he types in the web address. Craig can tell Clyde is genuinely proud of whatever he’s pulling up. “I make stuff out of wood now.” 

Clyde hands Craig his phone, still smiling. It’s a decently designed website, a mellow color scheme fitting with the amateur photos of various pieces of furniture. Craig takes a moment to scroll through, admiring the craftsmanship of the furniture. The photos weren’t completely atrocious, the lighting was acceptable and the posing not bad. It wasn’t a bad site, but Craig knew he could make it better.

“Do you have any social media for your business?” Craig asks, handing Clyde his phone back. 

Clyde nods, and then proceeds to show Craig the Instagram associated. It was of mostly the same finished photos, with a few works in progress scattered in between. 

“Is someone running your Instagram?” 

“Not right now, I only have like three part time employees, so it’s mostly me.” Clyde answers, scrolling through his own Instagram. 

Craig turns back to his drink. He knows he shouldn’t. It would be a bad idea, as it would require him to spend a lot of time in Clyde’s presence. But here’s another customer opportunity…

Against his better judgement, Craig pulls his own phone out, pulling up his business Instagram page. 

“Do you want me to help out? I could retake those photos and edit them to look better. Not that they look bad, but they could always look better.” 

Craig hands Clyde his phone, full of artfully taken photos showcasing his skills. These are all example photos he’s taken for various clients back in California; mostly local apparel shops or artisan food dealers, though he did work with an interesting bicycle shop once. Craig spent his time working with marketing for various businesses. It wasn't his ideal job, but it wasn't awful, in fact he sort grew to like it. It was better than doing portraits.

Clyde scrolls through, amazement shown on his face. Craig tries to squash the small pride he feels at Clyde’s reaction. “I do charge a rate though,” 

Craig let’s his thought linger in the air as Clyde hands his phone back. No need to get into the dirty details if Clyde isn’t willing to pay for his service. 

“Would you mind giving out a small best friend’s discount?” Clyde sheepishly asks. It sounds like half a joke, half a truth. Craig keeps his eyes on his drink. 

“No,” He begins, because he doesn’t generally give discounts. And even if he did, Clyde is certainly not his best friend. Craig neglects to voice this though. Clyde turns back to his own drink, thumbing the glass. He looks a little pathetic, Craig tells himself. There’s something more there Craig doesn’t dwell on. “But I could give a first client discount.” 

Clyde perks up, looking back over at Craig with a wide smile. “Deal.” 

Craig frowns, embarrassed at Clyde’s enthusiasm. The two exchange schedules, again Craig fails to disclose the majority of his week’s time is taken by his corporate overlord. Clyde, on the other hand, is basically free whenever. It must be nice being your own personal boss, Craig knows that freedom as well. They agree on a time, next Monday, for their first photo session. 

In the parking lot, Craig half in his car, calls out “Make sure you’re doing something worth taking pictures of. Maybe saw something or have your carving tools out. Whatever you use.” 

Clyde turns around, throws a thumbs up. “Okay! Thanks for coming out tonight, I’ve really missed you dude!” 

Craig nods once, only slightly, before getting in his car. What a particularly uncomfortable night. Craig has not felt so many emotions in such a short period. The drive home, his brain is mostly static. Even as he walks into his house, he still can’t process the evening's events. 

Clyde is divorced and now makes furniture; who would have thought? Not Craig, especially not at 28. This is the type of thing that 55 year old mid-life crisis people do. 

Craig doesn’t sleep that night, which sucks because he opens in the morning.


	2. Chapter 2

The address Clyde gave to Craig for his studio is a very unassuming building. Craig actually isn’t sure what he expected, so he shouldn’t be surprised at the generic store front on North Main Street, but to some degree he is. There’s no lettering on the building but painted in white cursive on the large glass window up front says “Donovan's Furniture and Gifts”, which is, in Craig’s humble opinion, somewhat of a cute name, albeit boring. 

The large glass window also acts as a showcase for the table on display with two chairs fanned out on either side. A table runner lays down the middle of the white oak, but other than that, there is no decoration to take away the simplistic beauty. It’s a little “farmhouse chic” for Craig’s taste, but it has its charm. 

There’s a jingle as Craig opens the door. Looking up, he can see the two miniature cowbells hanging down from the hinge. The showroom is small, but has a few other pieces scattered around. The building gives a much larger appearance than what the space actually holds. Along with the future, near the front counter, a multi-level display houses several wooden sculptures and toys. 

“Hey!” 

Clyde’s greeting catches Craig’s attention away from the metal and wood bookshelf against the left wall. Craig readjusts his camera bag as he walks forward. There’s a threshold connecting the counter to a room with a curtain hiding it’s contents that Clyde walks through. 

“Oh hey Craig, hope you didn’t get lost.”

“Well there’s not really a sign,” Craig says as he reaches the counter. It’s a nice dark oak, or maybe cherry wood. Did they have cherry wood in Colorado? Craig doesn’t know, he also doesn’t care. 

“Yeah, I’m working on that.” Clyde laughs. He’s wearing those same ripped jeans, but at least his shirt is clean. It’s flannel, with the sleeves rolled up. Craig tries not to stare, opting for again trying to decipher what kind of wood the counter is comprised of. 

“Do you want to come see the back?” Clyde asks in Craig’s silence. Craig walks behind the counter, and under the curtain Clyde holds open for him. The next room is Clyde’s workshop; there’s a large work bench off to the right and several industrial racks with different colored planks of wood to the left. In between there’s a few other half finished pieces. Off near the workbench, stands two iron clamps with a square cracked wooden board, blue resin in between the cracks. Craig would be lying if he said he wasn’t impressed. 

“I actually just moved into this building a few months ago. I’m still waiting on some stuff, like the sign.” Clyde says, walking over to the workbench. He moves a few tools out of the way, and dusts the open spot. “But, it’s not too bad. I started out in my garage, so I mean, this is a huge step up.” 

Craig sets his camera bag on Clyde’s workbench, and begins to take his camera parts out. Craig tries to remain professional, he technically is on the job right now, but it’s hard not to stare. At the workbench, covered in scratches and wood chips. At the unfinished pieces around the shop. At Clyde. 

It never really hits just how old you're getting, until you spend time around people you knew when you were like eight. This was another reason Craig never wanted to come back to this shitty small town. His old high paced life California kept his mind from settling on the regrets of his youth, now he’s surrounded by reminders. 

“So, I know you said I should, like, be cutting stuff or something. But I need to varnish some things, and that can be cool, because it goes from grainy to shiny. Would that work?” Clyde asks, peering over Craig’s shoulder to watch Craig assemble his camera. 

Clyde seems to have a habit of interjecting at the right time, cutting Craig’s monologues short, something that seems to have carried over from their adolescence. The irony is not lost on Craig. 

“Yeah, I guess that could work.” Craig answers, realizing now a simple shrug isn’t enough of an answer. Clyde moves over to the square in the two clamps and looks around awkwardly. 

“So should I pose? Or,” Clyde trails on, looking from Craig to the board. 

“No, I want to get some candid shots. Plus, I’m not taking pictures right now, I’m getting a couple of videos.” Craig levels his body with the clamps, and positions the camera at the hemisphere of the board. 

Without much hesitation, Clyde pours a small amount from a cup full of varnish in the middle of the board. Using a wide brush, Clyde begins to spread the varnish over his piece, careful to cover the surface equally. It’s quiet between the two of them, not uncomfortably so. There’s a radio somewhere, playing some stupid “throwback” station, muffled by either the distance or perhaps the volume is just low. Craig is used to working like this, he enjoys it actually, being able to just _observe _. But unfortunately, he forgets he’s working with Clyde.__

“Sorry if this is boring.” Clyde apologizes after a few seconds of silence. 

“This isn’t boring.” 

“Well it can be if you’re not into woodworking.” 

“Clyde, I take pictures of people for a living. It’s fine.” 

“But,” Clyde starts, looking down. Craig shoots him a dirty look, their eyes meeting briefly, before Clyde shuts up and goes back to pouring more varnish on the board. Craig feels bad for him, he doesn’t want to admit it, but he does. 

_Goddamn it._

Ever since their weird evening of shitty drinks, Clyde’s been trying to reignite their old bond. It had only been a handful of messages, masquerading as set up for this exact meeting, but Clyde always tried to pry for more after the initial information was traded. Craig, on the other hand, always let it hang, leaving Clyde on read. 

But now, as a guest in Clyde’s business, he supposes he should try. If Clyde wanted to talk, maybe it wouldn’t be completely awful. 

“So you said you just moved in this building a few months ago.” Craig says, standing up now, reviewing the short minute and a half of footage he captured. 

Clyde looks up from the finished board. “Oh, uh, yeah.” 

“And you have a couple of employees?” Craig presses, feeling like a complete jackass. Clyde smiles a little, appreciating Craig’s effort. 

“Yeah, two of them are part time. Usually one of them will come in on the weekends and sort of help out with customers. Stan is the most regular employee I have, but-“ 

“Wait. You mean, like, Stan Marsh?” Craig cuts in skeptically, now with genuine interest. 

“Oh yeah, we’re really good friends now.” Clyde says with a shrug. Craig lets the camera hang from it’s straps around his neck. Man, he really has missed out on a lot. 

“But he’s not really my employee. He helps me out with projects, he’s a repair man now, so he knows his way around the shop. I still give him a little something though, it feels weird not to pay him for his help.” 

“Oh,” Craig doesn’t know what else to say. “That’s cool.”

He expected to be out of the loop on some things, but not like this. Well, to be fair he doesn’t really know who has stayed in this shitty town. He supposes it makes sense, but it’s just weird. Clyde and Stan were on the football team back in high school, and friendly on the surface into college, but it’s not like they hung out together at all. All of Clyde’s time was usually spent with Craig. 

“Let’s move on to some standing shots.” Craig changes the subject, his jaw growing tight. He also wants to get these shots out of the way. But he _also _just wants to drop this subject. Craig walks out of the workroom back to the front lobby, with Clyde trailing behind.__

The rest of the session goes smoothly, with Clyde giving random facts about all the finished pieces Craig is taking pictures of; details on the engraved edges or breakdowns on the types of wood used. Craig listens, and sometimes asks questions, because eventually Craig will be the one to rewrite the descriptions under the new photos. 

At the end, Clyde looks over the shots and short videos Craig has taken, with Craig explaining his “vision” for the editing process. Craig can tell most of the jargon he’s using is going over Clyde’s head, but Clyde nods like he knows exactly what Craig means. It happens more often than you would think, most of Craig’s clients trust his skills without understanding what the hell he's talking about. 

“Well, I’ll let you know later this week what my schedule is.” Craig tells Clyde as he packs his equipment up. 

“Yeah dude, no worries.”

To Craig’s surprise Clyde isn’t begging for him to stay later than necessary. Not that he wants to, but he had already mentally prepared an excuse. After packing up, Clyde walks Craig out. 

“I guess I’ll see you Thursday.” Craig says off handedly, heading out of the store. 

“Wait, what do you mean?” 

“Um, Thursday is thanksgiving. My mom invited you and your dad?” Craig says, turning around. Clyde just stands there, confused. He looks dopey, with his eyebrows scrunched up. 

“Shit, I didn’t know that.” Clyde says after a pause, patting his back pocket until he locates his phone. “Uh, I’ll see you then.” 

Craig isn’t sure what type of reaction to give, so he doesn’t. He just turns back around and walks back to his car. _Well, that first session wasn’t as painful as it could have gone _, Craig thinks as he drives home. He is not looking forward to the next one.__

__—_ _

“God damn it Craig.” 

“Mom, I’m sorry.” 

“I can’t believe this.” 

“It’s an honest mistake. Sorry I’m retarded.” 

“You really are, it’s a wonder I never got you fucking tested.” His mother says as she chops carrots in frustration. Or, more like rage. Really, it’s not his fault. The font on his phone is too small. Craig should really look into getting glasses. 

“People get AM and PM mixed up all the time.” Craig grits his teeth. It’s too early, really. But unfortunately thanksgiving dinner is now being moved to thanksgiving lunch because, apparently, Craig doesn’t know how to tell time. His mother is quiet as she eviscerates the carrots. 

“It’s not like Clyde’s dad cares.” Craig tries weakly. He isn’t much of a mamma’s boy, but it fucking sucks having to share a space with a pissed off mom. Especially the kitchen. Whatever. Craig forgoes his futile effort to ease his mother’s frustration, and continues to prepare the turkey. He looks at the clock, 6:04 a.m. It really is too fucking early. 

It’s not that uncommon for Craig to work mornings, so it really isn’t his fault for looking at the schedule, seeing 6-2, and thinking he’s opening. Why the hell is he supposed to stay after midnight? He’s never worked retail like this. Most of his holidays he’s spent with his friends at someone’s cramped apartment. 

That’s where he wishes he could be, at Connor’s. Cosmo in his left hand, joint in his right, and a nice plate of ethically sourced turkey and locally grown greens in front of him. His mind wonders, it’s been a couple of days since he’s sent Connor a message. He should probably do that, given it’s a holiday and all. 

“Craig stop fisting the fucking turkey.” His mother sighs next to him bringing him out of his daydream. His jaw hurts. Her hand rests on his shoulder, somewhat comforting. Craig looks down at his right forearm, half of which is obscenely engulfed in turkey ass. Without a word Craig continues to stuff the bird with the _mirepoix _, although he does so more gently.__

Now with the turkey in the oven, the morning goes more smoothly. His mother has calmed down and is her usual self again. And at least, with them up this early, they’ll be able to watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. A staple of Craig’s youth. Sitting on the sofa, coffee in hand, Craig watches the shitty parade. He never admitted it to anyone, but he always wanted to go in person as a kid. Now seeing all those cold idiots huddled together cheering for inflated SpongeBobs and Ronald McDonalds as an adult, he feels kind of stupid. 

His self loathing is cut short by the doorbell. Craig gets up from his seat, and goes to inspect. It’s much too early for the Donovan’s to stop by. Opening the door he’s greeted to tinfoil being shoved in his face. 

“Oh wait, you’re not mom.” His sister says, disappointed. 

“Ah,” Craig responds, stepping aside to let Tricia in. “I forgot you were coming.” 

“Shut up, no you didn’t. How’s living back home?” She asks, not unkindly. It’s more apologetic. Craig shrugs, because it’s not too bad, just pathetic. To be fair, his mom has been his best roommate he’s had so far. 

“It’s not too bad, but I still kind of want to neck myself.” He answers honestly as the two walk in. 

“Mom, I brought a pie!” Tricia yells from the living room, plopping down in Craig’s seat. She grabs Craig’s coffee from its place on the end table next to the sofa. 

“Dude, that’s mine.” Craig stands front of her, his hand out. 

“I’m not going to drink it, you put too much creamer in it.” Tricia makes a disgusted face, but does not move to hand Craig his drink back. Instead she swirls it around and wretches at the color. Craig rolls his eyes. 

“Hey, how was your drive?” Their mother asks, coming out of the kitchen. Tricia sets the offending cup down, and moves to stand up, setting the pie on the sofa. She hugs her mom. 

“Eh, it wasn’t too bad.” 

Craig knows he’s a shitty brother, he doesn’t necessarily remember what Tricia does for a living. He thinks she’s a nurse. That sounds about right. But he does know she took the safe route, and instead of moving out of state, she moved out of town to The Springs. Do people still call it that? It doesn’t matter, Craig has never had the chance to see her place in person. 

Through Craig’s silence, he hears his mother tell Tricia she’s working on the pumpkin pie in the kitchen. Tricia picks up her pecan pie and follows their mother. Craig takes his seat back and sips on his perfectly creamed coffee. Tricia returns a few minutes later with her own coffee in hand. 

“How’s your douchey boyfriend?” Craig asks, his eyes still on the sad parade. Tricia nudges him in the ribs, causing Craig to spill a little on his jeans. “Dude-“

“He’s not a douche, asshole.” Tricia answers, rolling her eyes. This is a fair point, Craig has never met Tricia’s boyfriend, but because Craig has never met him, he’s a douche in Craig’s eyes. “He works today actually. A twelve hour.” 

“Oh yeah?” 

“Yeah, sucks but it is what it is. How’s your job going? Mom told me you’re at _Target _.” Tricia smiles, her eyes instigating. Ah, pay back for the douche comment. Craig tries to remain dignified, they aren’t in middle school anymore. Tricia can’t push his buttons like she used to, although she’s getting close. Craig shrugs, keeping his eyes on the commercial break. Tricia accepts Craig’s relent with a triumphant sigh, and too turns her attention to the tv.__

It’s a fairly smooth morning, with Tricia and Craig taking turns helping their mother in the kitchen. Before either of them know it, there’s a knock at the door signifying the end of their quiet family morning. Craig walks to the door, a minuscule knot in his stomach. As Craig opens the door he’s greeted to Roger Donovan. 

_Just _Roger Donovan.__

“Craig! It’s good to see you!” Roger exclaims, patting Craig’s shoulder as he walks in. Craig nods, closing the door. The polite thing to do is to tell Roger “ _Same to you sir _.” but Craig isn’t one for empty gestures. So he doesn’t, instead he follows Roger into the living room. Unlike Roger though, Craig takes his seat back next to his sister, while Roger wanders into the kitchen.__

____

____

There’s a faint “Smells great Laura!” from the kitchen, but Craig channels all his energy into tuning them out. What remaining energy he has left is put into his temporomandibular joint. His eyes flicker to the clock, 12:03. Hey, at least it’s finally the afternoon. Craig stands up, walks through the kitchen, past the two chatting parents, to the fridge. He reaches for the _Coors Light _but stops short, that piss water won’t do.__

__“Craig, do you need something?” His mother asks. Craig stands there for a moment, fridge still open._ _

__“No.”_ _

Craig eventually shuts the fridge. A beer won’t do, he can feel it. Plus the empty carbs aren’t really something he wants to deal with if they won’t taste good. Instead, Craig fills a glass half full of water, drops a few ice cubes in, and walks out of the kitchen to his room. There the sweet embrace of _Tito’s Vodka _awaits him.__

__Much better, although strong. Now that he has something to a quell the minuscule knot, he can relax. Tricia eyes him over as he comes down the stairs. Craig doesn’t make eye contact as he walks back over and sits down._ _

“Are you going to share?” She questions quietly. 

“Water is free.” 

“Don’t be a douchebag.” 

“A douchebag? I thought I was an asshole.” 

“You’re both, now come on.” 

“Both? So like, an enema?” Craig smiles around the rim of his drink at his own joke. 

“Fucking, you would know.” Tricia tries not to laugh as she stands up. Craig watches as she heads to the stairs. 

“It’s in the closet, don’t dig through my stuff.” 

“Don’t worry, I don’t want to see your dildos.” Tricia waves him off as she ascends. Craig rolls his eyes. Stupid Trish, those are under his bed. He neglects to correct her though, and instead takes another sip from his borderline undrinkable drink. He used to drink vodka-waters all the time, but now the pungent taste of pure vodka makes him wretch. God he’s getting old. Or maybe he just needs a lime. That’s probably it. 

Tricia comes back down just in time, coffee cup in hand. Before Craig can ask if she can get him a lime, he realizes the implications. Vodka-waters are strong, but a vodka-coffee? That’s dedication, albeit horrific. Before he can start his quest for a lime, the parents come out of the kitchen, Laura grabbing the remote off the coffee table. 

“I hope you kids don’t mind,” Roger begins, apologizing. 

“They won’t.” Their mother answers for them. They don’t, but Craig doesn’t want Roger to know that. “Also, Craig, don’t you work today?” 

Craig looks at his mother skeptically, then looks at his inconspicuous drink, and finally back to his mother. 

“Yes, in 6 hours.” 

Roger smiles, looking over at Craig from his seat. “Oh, Craig, where do you work?” 

It was an innocent question. Craig knows this, but that doesn’t stop Craig from feeling defensive. He thought his mother would have divulged that information already so Craig wouldn't have to. 

“I’m a manager at Target now. In their photo studio.” Craig relents, the last bit of his pride fading away. How pathetic. He takes another sip, well more like a gulp, from his drink and focuses on whatever game is on. 

“That’s great! I hear they have good benefits.” Roger continues, pointing his _Coors Light _in Craig’s direction for emphasis. Craig just hums in response, praying to whatever deity is looking over him to end his misery.__

Dealing with Clyde Donovan is one thing, but his dad? Alone? Tricia at least has an excuse, she was never close with the Donovan’s. She can retreat to the kitchen and not be questioned. But Craig? He could just be an asshole for no reason, he’s good at that, but just like his son, Roger isn’t the brightest bulb out there. He’ll just keep talking. At least with the game on he’ll be distracted for some time. 

And he is. Laura and Roger talk in between commercials while in the kitchen, his mother finishing the side dishes. Tricia sometimes gets pulled into the conversation, she doesn’t mind though, sharing stories of patients that probably violate HIPAA laws. Craig, on the other hand, reveals as little information as he can, without being a straight up dick. 

By 1:30, the food is done. It smells delicious, but Craig isn’t hungry. His stomach is full of vodka and water, which did nothing to untie the minuscule knot, that actually isn’t so minuscule anymore. Clyde isn’t here, which shouldn’t be a problem, but it is. The four of them pile into the kitchen, and huddle together for grace. Craig tries not to mind that Roger and his mom are holding hands, but in his buzzed state of mind, he almost says something regretful. 

“Lord, we thank you today for this wonderful meal, and great-“ 

There’s a knock at the door. Craig’s mother stops mid-sentence. 

“I got it.” Craig takes his opportunity to leave, lest he snap at Roger for daring to touch his mother’s hand. His legs feel a bit like jelly as he walks. He hopes he isn’t obvious, but accepts the reality that he probably is. It’s a holiday, he can let loose a little. Except he should probably chill out since he has work soon. 

_Fuck em. ___

And fuck him. As Craig opens the door, he stomach flips. Maybe it wasn’t so good that he’s had nothing but an over creamed coffee and several cups of vodka-waters. Standing on his porch is Clyde. Which is fine, douchebag is two hours late practically. But standing next to Clyde is an even bigger douchebag. 

“Hey man, it’s good to see you. Been a while.” Stan Marsh laughs. Clyde smiles, a bit awkwardly, looking from Stan to Craig. 

Craig is much too loose for this situation. His stomach is sinking, lower than it already has been. In fact, he feels like throwing up right then and there. But he doesn’t. He just stands there, blocking the way, trying to process why the fuck _Stan Marsh _is on his porch with Clyde.__

“Hope it’s cool, I was at Stan’s earlier and when I mentioned I was coming here, he wanted to come too.” Clyde offers, now looking even more awkward, as Craig has yet to move. 

“Craig! Who is it?” His mother calls. 

All Craig can do is step aside, his jaw way too tight to even speak now. Craig’s mother comes around the corner, along with Roger and Trish. 

“Oh! Stanley, what a surprise.” Laura declares, smiling. Craig feels like he’s in a fever dream. Maybe he drank too much on an empty stomach and blacked out. That’s the only rational explanation, because there is no way his mother is inviting Stan in with open arms. 

“How’s Sharon doing?” 

“She’s good! She says hi by the way.” 

“Have you boys eaten?” 

“No ma’am, just some snacks.” 

“Well, get in, we were just about to say grace.” 

What. The. Fuck. 

Craig, still standing by the open door, watches in horror as everyone now looks at him like he’s growing a tail out his ass. Craig scowls, and shuts the door with what little dignity he has. He keeps his hands in his pocket during grace. So this is how it is, huh. Clyde bringing his _new _best friend over, just to rub it in Craig’s face. But why go through the effort of bugging the hell out Craig for a drink? Why all those messages asking Craig “So, what’s up?” Or “How’s your day been?”. Clyde must be looking for a way to pay Craig back for all those years of silence and now he finally has it.__

__“So Craig, Clyde says you’re helping him around the shop, that’s awesome!” Stan says._ _

__Craig doesn’t look up from his plate of not locally sourced ethical turkey. “Yeah,” is all he can manage._ _

__“I showed Stan some of your pictures,” Clyde mentions, mouth full of whatever._ _

__“Yeah, they look awesome.” Stan finishes._ _

__Craig grunts a “Thanks.”, forking a sliver of turkey. Tricia pats Craig’s thigh under the table. He looks at her, she catches his gaze, it’s hard as steel. She squeezes his thigh once, before retreating her hand._ _

__It’s a warning._ _

__Tricia was there the night of Clyde’s wedding. She was in the bathroom, consoling Craig while he cried his heart out next to Tweek. She had been the only other witness to exactly how bad he got that night. Craig had cried so hard he threw up, but that could also be attributed to the many, many drinks he consumed. Before his episode, his attitude was similar to how it is now; short and biting. He, however, is not drunk enough to cry in the bathroom._ _

__“Clyde told me you help with projects.” Taking Trish’s warning to heart, Craig tries to play nice. His tone is flat, and if you listen hard enough slurred. He takes a bite of his food, he needs it, although he has little to no appetite. Stan perks up now that Craig has finally acknowledged him._ _

__“Just every now and again, but yeah. Clyde and I have done some really cool stuff, like when we renovated Tweek’s parent’s shop.”_ _

__“Oh, that’s cool.” Craig keeps his fuzzy gaze on his food._ _

__“How was it like living in California? I’ve always wanted to go.” Stan asks, never knowing when to shut up.__

Craig reaches for his water, _just _water, and takes a big sip. After inhaling half the glass, Craig shrugs.__

__“It’s not too bad. Bit of a culture shock at first. Expensive as fuck. Lot of fags there.”_ _

__“Craig-“ His mother cut in, stopping her conversation with Roger._ _

__“What? He asked, I answered.” Craig tries to not be sarcastic to his mother, it’s not her fault. But in some weird cosmic way, it is. “Why does it matter? I’m one of them anyway.”_ _

Laura sighs, shaking her head. Tricia pinches Craig’s thigh, a second warning. Craig decides to shut the fuck up for the rest of their lunch, scowling into his mashed potatoes. It wasn’t even that awkward of a thing to say, his mother knows exactly how they talked as kids. Saying “fag” hasn’t even been the worst thing he’s ever said. His father used to call him that, where was the outrage then? 

The conversation shifted, Tricia being the one to change the subject, and that was that. Soon, the moment passed with everyone around Craig chatting away. After a full stomach, most of the men migrated to the living room to talk sports. Craig stays back, silently putting the leftovers away next to his mother. It’s an apology, hopefully she understands. 

Clyde comes into the kitchen during one of the commercials, just as Laura walks into the living room. 

“Hey, are you okay?” He asks Craig, softly. They’re both by the fridge, Craig with a tupperware full of green bean casserole in hand, Clyde a _Coors _.__

__“Yeah, I’m fine.” Craig lies._ _

__“You don’t really sound fine. Is it because I brought Stan? Look,-“_ _

“I said I’m _fine _, Clyde. I’m just an asshole, okay?” Craig closes the fridge. Clyde stands there, looking at Craig, with concern and something else. Craig can’t tell what it is. His buzz is fading, now that he has a stomach full of starchy foods that will surely upset him later. They stand there looking at each other, Craig stoic while Clyde looks like he wants to ask a question he knows Craig won't answer.__

"I don't think you're an asshole."

Cheering from the living room breaks their tension, both of them looking over to see the instant replay of some goal Craig doesn’t care about. He takes this opportunity to walk away. Craig sits next to Tricia in the love seat adjacent from the sofa that Roger, Stan, and Clyde share. Laura sits in a chair pulled next to Roger’s side of the sofa. 

Tricia gives Craig a once over as he sits, Craig gives her a nod, signaling that, yes, he will behave for the rest of the afternoon. She accepts this, and gives him a pat on his thigh. Two hours pass like nothing, everyone making nice besides Craig, who stays mostly quiet through the ordeal. Sobering up but still feeling shitty. 

Once five o’clock hits, Craig excuses himself to go change into his monkey suit. While in his room he considers one last good chug of vodka before deciding, no, he isn’t his father and instead faces reality sober. With that thought he realizes never gave his father that call. Oh well. 

As he makes his way down the stairs, changed from his neutral blues to now a scarlet sweater, a buzz comes from his pocket. He pulls his phone out to see a message from Connor. Opening it reveals a picture of his circle of close friends from California, with the caption “ _Fucking miss your cranky ass _”. There’s a sadness in Craig. He misses them too, desperately. It’s unfair really, how today’s gone. First he fucks his schedule up, then Clyde shows up with fucking Stan Marsh, and now this.__

He can’t blame Connor though. There is no way Connor could know that sending this picture, now, would be the nail in the coffin that is Craig Tucker’s Shittiest Thanksgiving Ever. Craig looks from his phone, over the top of the railing, out into the living room; there Clyde is laughing with Stan on the sofa. 

It’s weird, almost like looking into a warped mirror. Being next door neighbors for their entire childhood, Craig and Clyde spent many holidays together, including thanksgiving. He should be in that spot next to Clyde, laughing. Craig looks back at his phone, the black screen looking back at him. It’s poetic, Craig decides. He pockets the phone, and walks back down the stairs.

God, things have changed. 

For the first time, in a long time, Craig regrets pushing everyone away, especially Clyde.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a continuation of events that happened in the previous chapter.

Craig walks down the stairs, interrupting the conversation, and after announcing his departure due to work, everyone decides it’s time to call it an evening. Stan gives a verbal goodbye, same with Roger. Clyde, on the other hand, gives Craig a shoulder squeeze. His hand is firm, and practically engulfs Craig’s boney shoulder. Craig would have been aroused by the sheer size difference if he wasn’t so pissed off. 

Clyde asks if Craig knows his schedule, and the two plan Clyde’s second session for the following week, either Tuesday or Thursday, sometime in the afternoon. Clyde lingers a second longer than necessary, looking at Craig with his hazel eyes, before turning to leave. Craig swallows, his saliva thick with traces of his sedated buzz. 

The drive to work is pleasant, as most traffic is rightfully home with their families. The parking lot of Target was scattered with cars, mostly other employees here early to prepare for the crowd that will surely come within a few hours. Target doesn’t open to the public until 8 p.m. tonight; Black Friday doesn’t actually start on _Friday _, apparently it starts at 8 p.m.__

Craig clocks in, feeling fucking exhausted already. His limbs are heavy, and his stomach hasn’t settled. He took his medicine, but it hasn’t done much to stop the churning feeling. It’s probably not his Crohn’s, he knows this, but he blames the disease anyway. While at the clock-in machine, he looks at the schedule. The photo studio is closed, obviously no one is getting their photo taken at 8 p.m., but that leaves the question as to which department he was subjugated to. 

It was Tech. 

_I wonder who did this _, Craig thinks, a smile creeping to his lips. Thank god. It’s the first time something’s given him a reason to smile since this morning. Walking into tech, Craig immediately spots Cathy, reading over the inventory, no doubt. She glances up from her computer, her eyes brightening.__

__“I was wondering when your ass was going to get here.” She says, her words easing Craig’s stiffness._ _

__“I got you this.” Cathy follows up, a coffee in hand from the Starbucks that’s built into the front entrance. Craig accepts the coffee with utmost appreciation. He could cry, but he won’t._ _

“You have no idea the fucking day I’ve had.” Craig exhales. He pops the lid off, and sips away. He can’t believe it, she knows his order. It’s at the perfect level of heat; clearly it’s been sitting here for a minute, but it’s just above room temperature. Truly Cathy is a godsend. 

“Can’t wait to hear about it.” Cathy smirks, returning back to her computer screen. Craig peers over her short shoulder. He was right, the inventory list is pulled up, although Craig doesn’t know the codes on screen. This is his first time in the tech department, he really doesn’t know what the fuck to do. 

“Yeah, but first, what am I supposed to do?” He asks, feeling stupid. Obviously it’s to help customers. Thankfully Cathy doesn’t voice this, she knows Craig is no dumbass.

“Well, all you really do is run around with these keys and open cases for people. Video games, computers, TVs, it doesn’t matter. Just make sure no one steals shit.” Cathy reaches around her keyring, and gives Craig a set of little brass keys. Craig immediately coils them on his existing keyring. It’s one of those stretchy ones that can be clipped to his jean’s loop or stretched over his bicep. He feels like a jackass every time he wears it, but it’s so damn convenient. 

Cathy spends the next thirty minutes walking Craig, and the other employees that don't usually work in tech, through the department. It seems easy enough, Craig isn’t too worried. He doesn’t care about this job enough to really be nervous. After the introduction, Craig hangs with Cathy in the department box, retelling his afternoon of woe. He needs another drink, but settles on another coffee, this time he pays for the two of them. Cathy shares her sympathy, giving Craig a motherly back pat, unable to offer any sage advice.

Soon enough the countdown begins, and all the employees brace themselves for the blood bath. It isn’t too bad at first, but soon the insanity creeps in, and before Craig knows it, all pandemonium lets loose. He’s pulled in so many different directions, he can’t even keep a straight list of all the things that need unlocking. It’s mostly TVs and some cameras. Game stations are another huge ticket item he’s shelling out. It’s all one big blur though, as Cathy and Craig dance around each other, running in all directions to please the almighty customer. 

Things slow down after eleven, but by then the shelves are mostly bare. Whatever stock they allow for thanksgiving night has already been poached. The crowds are subdued for the most part, but only because they’re all mostly stuck in the winding line snaking through the aisles. Taking a moment to breathe, Craig stands in the tech box, his eyes closed. Fuck he needs to work out again, how is he so winded? 

“Hey, uh, Craig. I have a customer that needs your help.” One of Craig’s employees says to him. She sounds sorry, probably because she is. 

“Of course.” 

Craig rubs his face in his hands before walking off in the direction his employee tells him. Some dumbass has a question about an Apple Watch. What could they possibly need to know? _It’s a fucking watch _. As Craig approaches, he stops. This was no average dumbass, in fact, it was no dumbass at all.__

Tweek Tweak stands there, frantically looking in between the displays that stay fastened to their security lock. Fuck. As if this fucking holiday couldn’t get any worse. Craig steadies himself, his jaw growing tight, as he approaches. 

“Uh, my employee tells me you have a question.” Craig announces in his customer service voice, which really is not at all much different from his regular voice. Tweek looks up, eyes wide and mouth agape. 

“Jesus dude, I thought you _died _!” Tweek all but shrieks. He’s gripping his sleeve, his eyes wide with shock, or maybe that’s how they normally look now, Craig isn’t sure. Tweek’s fashion sense has gotten better, Craig will give him that. He isn’t bothering with button ups anymore, and his hair is now neatly cropped. Craig sighs, accepting his fate, because what else is there to do in this situation.__

“No, I’m not dead.” 

“You sure you’re not a ghost?” Tweek demands. His hands are still twitchy, not nearly as bad as they used to be, but still chipped with scabs. So, he’s gone back to picking at his hands. Craig feels bad for him, it’s a painful habit, but hard to break. Many years ago, when they were still seeing each other, Craig had helped him break it, but it’s evident all that work was for nothing. 

“I swear I’m not a ghost, just a shitty manager. What can I help you with?” Craig sighs, once more as the exhaustion from the day hits him. He’s too tired to deal with this. Out of everyone he’s run into today, Tweek isn’t up there on the list of people he feels animosity for, but rather Tweek makes Craig self-conscious. Pushing Tweek away was the worst, and most difficult. Eventually Craig just blocked Tweek’s number, which led to Craig having to block Tweek on everything else, and then the postal letters started, subsequently ending about half a year later. 

“I swear to god, you better be. That would be a better fucking excuse!” Tweek groans, frowning now. Craig feels uneasy, keeping his eyes down to the stupid watches as the guilt from year’s past builds in him.

“Argh- I can’t believe I’m bumping into you here, at a goddamn _Target _.” Tweek continues, reaching up to tug on his short hair. It doesn’t have the desired effect that his long hair had.__

__“Likewise.” Craig cuts, trying to keep any shred of customer service he has left. His patience is running real fucking thin now, but snapping at Tweek won’t make him feel better._ _

“Look, Tweek, can we please keep this short. I’m fucking tired, and I’m sure you are too. What do you need help with?” 

Tweek huffs, either frustrated with Craig or frustrated that his hair is too short now to tug on. Craig bets it’s probably both. Tweek groans again, opting to pick at his hand. Craig almost says something, but it’s not his place anymore. 

“I’m trying to find a present for my boyfriend. Which one of these is the best? Because there's too much fucking _pressure _to find a good present with all these options and if I don’t get one now, then I never will!” Tweek rambles on, again darting between the displays.__

“And if I don’t get one now, then Christmas will be _ruined _and it’ll all be my fault and-“__

__“Dude, calm down. There isn’t really many options, so stop stressing.” Craig cuts Tweek’s anxiety fueled rant short._ _

Craig walks Tweek through the differences between the Apple Watches. It really only comes down to storage being the most defining factor, aside from the sport functions. To really seal the deal, Craig shows Tweek the difference in prices as there’s different specials. Craig admits it would be a nice present, and a not too terribly expensive one, before Tweek makes his decision. 

“Are you done now?” Craig asks, holding the Apple Watch SE (in space grey) box. Tweek nods, still looking pissed off. Craig rolls his eyes, he knows he shouldn’t be so obvious. He hands Tweek the box after scanning the barcode, not really bothering to bag it. 

Tweek looks at Craig, confused, his hands around the Apple Watch box still shaky. Craig gives Tweek his total, which again, is a pretty good deal. Neither of them speak through this. Truly, he feels shitty leaving things the way they are, especially now that he’s back in town. Tweek was his best friend, and for a while, the only person who really understood Craig. They were together for a couple of years, and remained close after their mutual breakup.

“Tweek, can we talk later?”

Craig breaks the tense silence between them. He feels he owes Tweek an explanation. Craig has mulled it over ever since he got back to town actually, with several failed attempts of driving past the coffee shop. Some things shouldn’t be left unsaid, he realizes this now after the events of today’s failed holiday lunch. 

“If you stop by the shop, I’ll kick your ass.” Tweek declares, but remains standing there. His challenge catches Craig’s attention, now finally looking up to meet Tweek’s eyes. Tweek is frowning, looking directly at Craig. The box shaking slightly in Tweek’s hand is distracting, but Craig keeps his eyes straight. 

“That’s fine, it wouldn’t be the first time.” Craig answers flatly. Tweek groans, but doesn’t tell Craig to fuck off as he leaves, so that’s something. It’s practically an invitation. Craig sighs, watching Tweek walk away, his jaw throbbing. He’s definitely going to need his night guard after all, and, like, five aspirins.

— 

Tricia is staying through the weekend, giving Craig some much needed sibling time. It’s been years since he’s seen her in person. Actually, the last time the two were together was during their parent’s divorce. Neither of them took it hard. It’s not like their family was particularly close anyway. Craig has a fond memory of them getting drunk and shit-talking about their father. 

Along with Craig, Tricia seems eager to get some one-on-one time, suggesting the two of them get breakfast on Sunday morning. Craig isn’t much of a morning person, but his schedule is tight and Sunday morning could be nice with everyone in church. 

“Mom’s still making cards, huh?” Tricia asks, sliding into the booth of the diner she chose. Craig slides into the booth on the opposite side. 

“Yeah, it’s weird.” 

Tricia snorts, picking up a menu. “Have you been in my old room?” She asks, her menu obscuring her face. 

Craig keeps his menu on the table. There’s not much he can have, most of this shit is too greasy, so he doesn’t bother to look. “No, why?” 

“Well there’s fucking junk everywhere. I found some of your old things, from when you were like, eight.” 

“Like what?” 

“Like some of your Red Racer shit.” Tricia moves the menu out the way, grinning at Craig. Craig smiles at the nostalgia. Red Racer; Craig’s old hero and subsequent first crush. 

“That’s funny.” Craig doesn’t elaborate, the waitress coming over to cut the conversation short by taking their drink orders. They both order a coffee, with Craig ordering extra creamer on the side.

“So, really, how have you been?” Tricia asks, setting her menu aside. She folds her arms across the table, and looks at Craig. 

“Are you my therapist now?” Craig asks, feeling somewhat defensive. He’s tired of having emotions and wants to go back to being a robot. 

“You got blitzed at thanksgiving.” Tricia doesn’t move as she speaks, aside from cocking her eyebrow. The waitress comes back with their coffees, and takes their order. Tricia orders a loaded breakfast plate with specialty blueberry pancakes, paling Craig’s two eggs, scrambled, and parfait. He’s not too sure they know how to make a parfait, but it’s on the menu, so he orders it. 

“I didn’t get blitzed. I got _buzzed _. Big difference.” Craig neglects to remind Trish she knows exactly what he looks like completely blitzed.__

“You acted like a jackass, is what you did.”

Craig declines to answer yet, and instead watches the way his coffee turns a nice caramel color after he adds the third creamer packet. He knows he was out of line, not as bad as he could have, no fists were drawn and he didn’t cuss anyone out, but he was out of line nonetheless. That whole day truly was a series of unfortunate events. 

“So, that leads me to ask; how are you?” Tricia continues in Craig’s silence. Craig takes a moment to answer, genuinely reviewing how he feels. He hasn’t felt like himself since he’s been back. Which is odd, because this is his old home, and these were his old friends. Instead Craig feels suffocated by all of this. 

“Are you worried that maybe Clyde is now with Stan?” 

“Excuse me?” Craig snaps his head up immediately. Tricia props an arm up, resting her cheek against her palm, looking quite bored. Craig feels violated at the mere notion of Clyde _dating _Stan.__

“What do you mean? It’s a possibility. They’re close, they work together, and they showed up together for dinner.” 

Craig scowls, it’s a reflex, because what Tricia is saying makes sense. “But that’s not true, because they’re both straight.” 

“Why does it matter if it’s true? You’re still upset by the idea of it.” 

The waitress comes by once more, delivering their food. Craig doesn’t even want his shitty parfait anymore, and it’s not because of how atrocious it looks. 

“Okay, what if I am? I don’t understand what you’re trying to get at.” Craig says, now irritated, digging his spoon into the yogurt with no intention of eating it. 

“What I’m getting at, is that you can’t be a standoffish asshole and a clingy ex-girlfriend. You need to at least pick one, or better yet, chill the fuck out.” Tricia asserts, digging into their pancakes. 

She’s right, again. Craig doesn’t want to admit it, so instead he remains silent, picking at his food. He gives her advice a brief consideration, but then decides the conversation is over. Instead of giving Trish the satisfaction of any more of a reaction, he deflects.

“Have you talked to dad?” 

Craig decides to ask after staying silent for far too long. Tricia pauses her assault on the pile of pancakes in front of her, mid cut. Craig can see the emotions flashing from her eyes; denial, anger, bargaining. Eventually she settles on acceptance, sealing the end of this uncomfortable conversation with a reluctant sigh. 

“No, I haven’t. Have you?” 

Craig continues picking at his parfait, making it look more unappetizing than it did before. He doesn’t even bother with the eggs, the smell alone is making him nauseous. 

“I’ve been meaning to, I haven’t talked to him in a while.” Craig answers now indifferent to the new topic he brought up. It was a bad topic, he doesn’t like thinking about the strained relationship he has with his father, but in a way it’s better than thinking about the strained relationship he has with Clyde. 

“Why? I thought you hated dad.” 

“I do, but I don’t know. I haven’t even told him I moved back home.” 

“You don’t owe him anything.” Tricia keeps her eyes on Craig, even after she’s moved on to the scrambled eggs. Craig keeps his eyes on his shitty parfait. 

“I _know _that. I just feel like maybe I should say something.” Craig can feel himself scowling now. It’s a mixture of irritation and hunger, he should probably stop playing with his food. He picks up his, now cold, coffee in hopes it’ll satisfy him in some way. It doesn’t.__

“Since when did you make things so complicated? You’ve very melodramatic now.” Tricia scoffs, her mouth full of half a sausage link, the other half pointed in Craig’s direction. Craig looks up, exhausted. He feels depressed, but that can’t be right. He is lonely though, and that could be why he wants to complicate things with the people in his life. That, somehow, also doesn’t feel right though. He was never very good with introspection. 

The conversation changes once again, when the waitress returns with their checks. Craig pays, it’s the least he can do, and he’s pretty sure real therapy costs more than an $11.95 breakfast plate. Before they leave Craig forces himself to scarf down his shitty parfait, but leaves the eggs untouched. Outside the diner, the two siblings hug. Tricia’s grip around Craig’s back is firm, and ends with a hard pat. He isn’t sure when he’ll see her next, his shift starts within the hour and Tricia plans to leave before noon. 

Unlike his plans to eventually call his father, or to mend the weird relationship he has with Clyde, Craig makes a promise to check in with Tricia more often. 

—

The days after thanksgiving continue on as the holiday hype dies down before the rush of Christmas excitement. Most of Craig’s time is spent at work, as the top priority is cookie cutter families getting their Christmas card pictures taken. Unfortunately for them, Craig can’t give each photo the time he wants to, so most of them look generic. Well, generic by Craig’s standard. It’s the same “Winter Wonderland” or “Evergreen Forest” backdrop, same lighting, same stupid posing. 

Craig tries not to be cynical about it, this is specifically why he mostly refused to do portraits back in Irvine. The work itself isn’t hard, but it is monotonous, which is worse. Cathy is the only saving grace, breaking up the awkwardness between his other coworkers. Craig is getting better at conversing between the other two photo studio members. Both are college kids, which is simultaneously asinine and endearing. The three of them have gotten to the point where every now and again Craig will offer off the cuff advice. Craig can’t tell if they appreciate it, or if it’s wasted breath, so he mostly sticks to chatting with Cathy instead. 

Today is the first day Craig has had off which he feels he can look Clyde in the eye normally. Their first session after thanksgiving was awkward, even for Clyde. Craig cut it short, making up some dumb excuse. Clyde didn’t push it, Craig thinks he secretly was glad too. After Craig got home, he worked on editing some of the photos and videos he had taken, not wanting the guilt of wasting Clyde’s time weighing on him. 

Between then and now, the two have talked. It’s mostly been texts, and the conversations aren’t particularly interesting, but it’s something. Craig is trying, or at least, he tells himself that. Neither of them bring up thanksgiving, to which Craig is thankful. Tricia’s advice swims through his head every time the flash of Clyde’s name appears on his phone, but he is unsure how to implement it. So for now, he sticks to the tiptoeing conversations. 

Pulling up to Clyde’s shop is easier now, there’s no secretion of adrenaline pooling in his stomach anymore. Craig isn’t anticipating Clyde to be overly chatty, but who knows. Clyde doesn’t really know how to read a room, so it could go either way. 

Walking in, the cow bell clanks, drawing Clyde’s attention upwards from the shelf he is dusting. He grins, and waves, the duster in his hand releasing all the grim it had picked up into the air. Craig watches this for a moment, hoping Clyde will realize, but doesn’t hold his breath. Craig smiles, a bit more reserved from Clyde’s, and approaches the ladder Clyde is standing on.

“Hey! What did you have planned for today?” Clyde asks as he walks down. Craig is impressed with how comfortable Clyde is handling the ladder, but on the other hand, Craig can’t even remember the last time he had to work on a ladder. He supposes Clyde works on ladders often, but cuts this train of thought short, because it doesn’t really matter. 

“I kind of wanted to show you what I have so far, and maybe start working on the web design a little.” Craig answers, backing up to give Clyde room to fold the ladder closed. 

“Sounds good! I’m excited to see what you have, because honestly, sometimes I have no idea what you’re doing.” Clyde laughs, with Craig following as he walks to the back. Clyde stacks the ladder next to the five layered rack full of different colors of wood planks and scraps. 

“We can set up my laptop on the checkout counter, that way if someone comes in, you can help them out.” 

Clyde agrees, adding that his work bench is actually kind of full anyway. Craig takes a glance over, partially because he’s curious what new project Clyde is working on. It’s too early in the development phase, all Craig can see is random assortments of wood. Clyde holds the curtain open for Craig, he always does. Craig knows he’s just being polite, but it’s hard not to wonder if Clyde does the same thing with Stan, since apparently they work together often. 

Craig sets his laptop up, with Clyde giving him the wifi password, and pulls up the file all the edited photos are on. During their last session Craig focused on posing and photographing the pieces that are on display, partly because it’s somewhat tedious but mostly as an excuse to work alone in quiet. Clyde slides up right next to Craig, leaning over to view Craig’s computer screen. Craig tries not to mind their hips and elbows touching. 

“So, I got a few standing shots, and I can cut them out so there’s a solid white or black background, or I can keep them as is. It’s up to you, what do you like better?” Craig explains, slowly clicking through the photos. The showroom is very minimally decorated, which Craig finds aesthetic, but it does make some of the photos bland. He can play with the lighting all he wants, but a cabinet needs a few plants or maybe some books to make it look appetizing. 

“These all look really good. Better than what I could do."

Again, Clyde is excited at the pictures Craig has taken. He’s complimented Craig a few times, though it does not get easier to hear. Craig is not much of one for praise, it’s never really bothered him whether or not someone, who wasn’t a customer, liked his work. Although Clyde technically is a customer, his compliments do feel different. Craig tries to ignore Clyde’s “ooo”s and “ahh”s, keeping focus on explaining his ideas for certain reshoots. 

Eventually they move on to the actual website Clyde owns. Clyde is the soul admin of the site, and he tries to update it frequently, same with his Facebook and Instagram. Overall the site is not bad, having neutral black and brown colors, with the original photos being a decent sized scale compared to the sidebar widget. There’s a lot to play with, and not too many things need “fixing”. 

“Is there anything you need to work on?” Craig asks, once logged on to Clyde’s WordPress account. Clyde hasn’t really moved, still a little too close for comfort, peering over Craig’s shoulder. 

“No, but should I go? Are you one of those people that get nervous if they’re watched?” Clyde genuinely sounds curious, his head turning to face Craig. Craig keeps his eyes forward. 

“No I’m not, but I just didn’t want to keep you since it’s a bit boring.” 

“I like to watch, it’s kind of cool since you know what you’re doing. I had to watch like fifty million YouTube videos to try and figure out how to get this up.”

Clyde continues talking, with Craig mostly listening. It’s not as awkward as it could be. Similar to the first time they worked together. Craig even offers a few tips on how to navigate WordPress as he works. He remembers how he felt when he first learned this program, it’s easy enough, but still daunting since some things need to be meticulously formatted. 

A few hours pass, Clyde shifting every so often, but still remaining close. Craig at some point received a chair, while Clyde remained standing, leaning over the counter. So far the website has had a nice facelift, all of Craig’s photos replacing the old one, and a few of the drop down menus rearranged. Craig even walks Clyde through making a small biography section. 

“So that’s pretty much it, the short video I took will be at the header. I drew up a few different concepts for a logo, whichever one you pick will appear underneath it.” 

It wasn’t something they agreed on, but Craig thought it wouldn’t hurt to try and give Clyde a logo. It’s something most brands need, and Clyde’s business technically is a brand. Craig did feel a little self conscious drawing the few up, but justified it by having one being good design.

“Woah, I never really thought I’d have a logo. That’s for, I don't know, like, real companies.” 

“Well, don’t you sign all your finished pieces?”

“Yeah, but it’s just my initials.” 

Craig noticed this detail when photographing the standing shots, in fact, it was the inspiration for creating the logo prototypes. All of the small logos incorporate Clyde’s initials, or his last name, as that is his shop’s technical name. Craig pulls out the concept pieces from the notebook in his computer case. There’s a small hint of embarrassment in this, like he’s some love struck teenager writing his crush’s name in his diary, but he pushes those feelings aside. This isn't the first time he's created logos for small businesses, but there's a weird sense creating one for a friend. Clyde takes Craig’s notebook in his large hands, and stares. His eyes are wide, and his smile is wider. 

“These all look really awesome.” Clyde breathes after a moment of silence. It was the first time Clyde had been silent this whole appointment. 

“These aren’t the final versions, and they can all be reworked. I just thought it would be nice to have a real logo. You know, a symbol to define your business.” 

Clyde looks at Craig, and Craig finally looks up at Clyde. His hair isn’t as messy today, the small waves of his natural curl looking fluffy across his forehead. Clyde’s hazel eyes are bright with excitement, or maybe appreciation. Clyde's cheeks are a bit flush, the slightest pink hue to them, but Craig tells himself Clyde always looks like that. It reminds Craig of a Labrador, which is a good descriptor for Clyde. 

“Which one is your favorite?” Clyde asks, angling the notebook in Craig’s favor. Craig raises an eyebrow, and can’t help but snort.

“Uh, it’s your business dude.” 

“Yeah but you made these. I’m not creative, I didn’t even come up with the name of the store, Bebe helped me.” 

This information is new, but unsurprising. Craig had wondered just how involved Bebe had been with Clyde’s hobby turned income. Clyde did say he started in their garage, and his hobby was borne out of his enjoyment of _IKEA _furniture, but he never really mentioned Bebe’s role.__

__Craig takes a moment to really study the handful of logos. They are all simple in style, a couple having “Donovan’s” in rustic lettering, and the others being Clyde’s initials in varying arrangements. Eventually Craig settles on one particular design. It’s simple in comparison, but simple is kind of Clyde’s thing._ _

__The logo in question is modeled off a cattle brand. It’s a larger C cutting through a smaller D, and crowning the two letters is half a spur. Craig was inspired by the semi country atmosphere of Clyde’s shop, although Clyde never seemed like a country boy growing up. Clyde laughs as Craig points this out._ _

“I know, I know. I found that the more “rustic” pieces sold better so I sort of stuck with it.” Clyde explains, using his fingers for emphasis. “But I really like the idea of a cattle brand, it totally fits.” 

Craig feels a small swell of pride when he circles the winning logo. He closes his notebook, and looks at the time on his laptop, 5:22 p.m. It’s later than he thought it would be. Clyde’s eyes follow Craig’s direction as well, standing to allow Craig some room. 

“I guess it’s getting late,” Clyde starts, as Craig stands, humming in agreement. It really doesn’t feel like four hours have passed. Craig is reminded of how this used to be; back in high school, when Clyde would come over after football practice, and would watch Craig edit the photos he took for the school’s newspaper. Hours would pass, with the two talking about different things, until Laura would come up and ask if Clyde is spending the night. 

Craig gathers his items, and puts them in his computer bag. Clyde pulls out his phone, texting someone, or maybe checking some other app. Craig thinks back to what Trish said, he does want to do better, seeing as he made the choice to continue to work with Clyde. 

“So, since it’s a little late, did you want to grab something to eat?” Craig asks, feeling extremely awkward, but keeping his voice as flat as possible. It shouldn’t be that awkward, Clyde asks Craig this question often, well, it was often before thanksgiving. 

Clyde looks up from his phone, his mouth agape just slightly, looking a bit lost in thought. 

“Oh, um, yeah. It’s just. Today’s Monday, and well,” Clyde pockets his phone, looking around uncomfortably, his eyes on the front door of the building. “Stan and I always watch the game on Monday, when we both get done with work…”

Craig tries not to go rigid, but can’t help how his jaw tenses. 

“That’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” Craig hikes his computer bag on his shoulder, wanting to hurry up and get the hell out of here. At least he can say he tried. 

There’s a jingle at the front of the store. Both Craig and Clyde turn their heads towards the noise. Stan is walking in, his clothes dirty with black smudges and his hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat. 

“Hey, Craig, how’s it going dude?” Stan asks once at the counter, his hands slapping loudly against the wood as he speaks. 

“I was actually just leaving.” Craig responds, turning to say his goodbyes to Clyde. Clyde is smiling, but it looks forced, and very un-Labrador like. 

“I’ll walk you out.” Clyde says, a little too quickly to sound natural. Craig doesn’t protest, not wanting to prolong his time in this painful situation. The two walk out of the shop, with Clyde opening the door for Craig. Craig only stops when he reaches the driver side door of his car. He waits, Clyde looking like he wants to say something.

“You can come, I wasn’t trying to make it sound like it was just our thing.” Clyde suggests, putting his hands in his pocket. Craig opens his door, but doesn’t get in, merely leaning on the open frame. He stares for a moment, because in a way he does want to go. It wasn’t a pity invitation when he asked Clyde to get dinner, but there is no way in hell he wants to go to wherever, probably Skeeter’s, with Stan Marsh.

It feels wrong, especially since the lingering embarrassment of thanksgiving is still looming over the two of them. Mostly though, it feels wrong since Craig isn’t a part of the group anymore, that much was made quite clear, even if no one verbally ostracized him. He did that himself. 

“It’s fine Clyde. Maybe next time. I’ll text you.” Craig eventually answers, trying again, to keep his voice even and flat despite the tightness in his jaw. Without much more, he gets into his car, and closes his door. Clyde stays standing, his hands still in his pockets. Craig can tell Clyde is still looking into the car, but his expression is obscured by the reflection in the windshield. Eventually as Craig pulls out of the parking lot, Clyde gives a wave before going back inside. 

Craig spends the rest of the evening with his mother, including dinner. There’s not really a conversation besides his mother asking how hanging with Clyde went. Craig informs her they were not “hanging”, but working. His mother doesn’t press further than this. After dinner Craig returns to his room to continue working on the few touch ups needed for Clyde’s website.

Sometime around 8, Craig sends Clyde a rough copy of the digitized version of the logo he created. It’s in a “burned” style font and color, similar to the way a branding iron looks. 

Clyde responds, almost immediately. 

Sender: Clyde  
_That looks awesome, it looks almost real! The game is kind of boring, wish you were here lol ___

Craig stares at this message for a minute, unsure of how to respond. So, he doesn’t. Craig closes his phone, and places it face side down on his mother’s card making desk. The only light in the room is coming from the desk lamp, and the glowing hue of his computer screen. 

Instead of confronting his feelings for Clyde, Craig calls his current best friend, Connor. It’s been awhile since they have talked properly. Unfortunately for Craig, Connor doesn’t answer. He’s either working, or spending the evening with his Fiancé, Jason. It really has been a while that Craig spent a night alone, and not by choice. 

Clyde was always there, his attention not ever wavering, and even if Clyde was busy, he had Tweek, Token, and even Jimmy occasionally. Once in California, having Connor as a dorm mate and eventually roommate meant his evenings were filled with some sort of human interaction. Connor wasn’t shy, and introduced Craig to the majority of his adult friends, who in tern, also distracted Craig from mushrooming in his bed. But, now here in dingy little South Park, he sits, anxious and alone. 

Craig sighs, tired of feeling like a self loathing, _melodramatic _, piece of shit. After allowing himself a brief moment he decides to do something. That something isn’t particularly revolutionary, but in the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t need to be. Twenty minutes have passed since Clyde’s text, and Craig ends the waiting by sending a simple message back.__

____

__

To: Clyde  
_Yeah, I wish I went too. ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also wanted to say thanks to everyone who has commented and liked this fic. Technically Craig/Clyde is a rare pair, so I appreciate every little bit of support! :)


	4. Chapter 4

It’s the week of Christmas. The store has been a mess in the two weeks leading up till now. On the days Craig isn’t in the photo studio printing cards, they have him running around the Tech department. He’s gotten pretty good, along with Cathy’s guidance, in navigating Tech as a leader. But he would rather spend his days behind the camera, even if it’s just blurred families moving in and out of the studio. 

It’s tiring, and most days Craig is asked to stay late. The one day off a week he has had, Craig usually stays home, and rests. Clyde is sympathetic, maybe a little too much so. He texts Craig more often than before, it could be because Craig almost always replies now. Mostly it’s the two of them complaining about work, or talking about holiday plans. Clyde is spending Christmas Eve at home, and subtly implies they may be spending yet another holiday together. 

Craig doesn’t mind the now consistent line of communication. Ever since he opened up the other night, admitting his loneliness, he’s felt better. Not great, not normal, but better. Less pathetic and that’s good enough for him. The one thing he hasn’t felt great about was his run in with Tweek. Thanksgiving was about three weeks ago, and Craig has yet to show his face at the coffee shop. It’s not that he hasn’t wanted to go, but as the holidays have approached, their unceremonious reunion has been put on the wayside. 

Today, however, he feels rested enough to pester Tweek. It is a few days before Christmas, so Craig feels it necessary to bring a small gift as a peace offering. From what Craig remembers, Tweek used to have a pretty large sweet tooth. He hopes it’s still the case, and the several boxes of Lindor truffles with the accompanying tin of Walker’s cookies count for something. Craig packaged the bribe in a cute snowman bag from the dollar store, topped it with a white fluff of tissue paper, and wrote a simple yet effective message on a card his mother made:

_I’m sorry about being a dick before, I wasn’t in a good place. Let’s be friends again. ___

The drive to Tweek Bros. isn’t as difficult as it was before. Craig is nervous, but not enough to deter him into retreating. After parking, he grabs the bag, careful not to crush the tissue paper, and gets out. 

Peering through the large glass windows, Craig assesses that it isn’t too busy, and if a fight does break out, not too many people will be inconvenienced. He’s already mentally prepared himself for a physical altercation, and has no plans to initiate one, but knowing Tweek though, it’s really up in the air. 

As he walks in, the smell of fresh roasted beans hits almost instantly. It takes him back to middle school, and the long nights he would spend here with Tweek. It always felt like it was just the two of them here, working on homework, their hands held together under the table. Those feelings of nostalgia are crushed under the weight of the guilt he feels for shutting Tweek out for so long. Craig clenches his jaw, steeling his nerves. 

At first glance, Tweek, nor his parent’s, are to be seen. There are two baristas working the front, one on register and the other making the drinks. Craig does not recognize either of them. But this is fine, if anything, he can at least ask when Tweek works next if he isn’t here. Stepping up to the counter, Craig immediately feels the claws of embarrassment dig their way into his stomach. He is now suddenly aware of the implications the gift and card have. Maybe this was a bad idea, coming in the middle of the afternoon. What is he supposed to say? _Hey is Tweek here? I have this box of chocolates for him, also I’m his ex-boyfriend from middle school. ___

“What can I get for you?” The barista asks, pulling Craig back to reality, staring at Craig. By the look she’s giving, this isn’t the first time she’s asked him this. Craig gives his order, just a medium coffee with room for cream. She gives him his total, he gives her cash, and she gives him his change. Their interaction is clumsy, partially because he spaced out in the beginning, and partially because he doesn’t know when to ask about Tweek. 

The barista gives Craig a polite, yet concerned look. Per most social interactions, the handing of change would signal that it’s Craig turn to leave. But he lingers like an idiot. She probably thinks he’s socially awkward or maybe that he’s just retarded. Both of those are true, to some extent. 

Finally Craig inquires about Tweek, and the barista says he’s in the back, working on pastries. The face she’s making tells Craig she is unsure if she should have given those details out.

“Oh, well, can you just tell him I need to talk to him.”

Before he can make any more of a fool of himself, Craig leaves it at that and goes to retrieve his coffee that is now sitting on the bar. Sitting at the empty table, furthest from the counter, Craig feels like a complete jackass. His coffee isn’t even that good, it’s not sweet enough. 

Craig sits, and waits, unsure if the barista even went to the back to let Tweek know he has a visitor. He’s starting to get antsy, his leg bobbing under the table and his jaw tense. An amalgamation of regret and anticipation flood his stomach, and settle in his thighs. The caffeine in his coffee doesn’t help.

Eventually Tweek comes out from the back, tray of biscuits in hand. Maybe they’re scones, Craig can’t tell, it’s too far away to see. As Tweek is putting the scones (biscuits?) away in their glass display case, Craig watches as the barista from before tap on Tweek’s shoulder. She’s pointing in Craig’s direction. 

Tweek stands from the crouching position he was in, scone in hand and freezes. It’s far, but Craig can see Tweek’s eyes are wide, well, wider than they normally are. Immediately Tweek scowls, and proceeds to give Craig the bird. 

_That’s fine _, Craig accepts he deserves it.__

Craig, in response, holds up the peace offering with one hand and points to it with the other. 

Tweek twitches, it almost looks like a wink, but Craig knows he’s not that lucky. Throwing up his other hand, the one with the scone in it, Tweek flips Craig off with both hands. 

Craig emphasizes the bag, shaking it a little, and motions for Tweek to come over. 

Through this, the barista looks in between the two of them, shocked. Her mouth is open slightly, and Craig is sure her neck will snap if she keeps turning to look at the both of them.

_It’s fine _, he assures himself again. She doesn’t know their history.__

Tweek throws the scone on the ground, with an angry groan, and then stomps his way through the kitchen door and returns to the back, leaving the tray of fresh scones on the top of the glass case. Craig sighs, drops the stupid snowman bag on the table and rubs his face with both hands. 

“Michelle, can you tell that fucker to get out?” 

Craig hears Tweek demand to the barista, his voice strained. It’s not loud enough to cause a disturbance, Craig is sure the other patrons couldn't have heard them unless they were intently listening like Craig is. Bringing his face out of his hands, Craig can see the startled barista slowly walk over to his table. 

Standing, Craig waves at her, hoping to communicate he heard the message himself and does not need an escort out. He grabs the bag, crunching the tissue paper, and his shitty coffee. Without much more ceremony, he walks out, frustrated. 

Again, not as bad as it could have gone.

—

Christmas Eve comes soon enough. It’s not as glamorous of a holiday to a depressed 28 year old. All the magic of the season is drained by the fact that Craig works most of today. As he walks into work, the atmosphere surrounding the employees isn’t overwhelmingly jolly, save for a handful of people in reindeer horn headbands or Santa hats. But that’s to be expected, no one really wants to work on a holiday. What isn’t expected is the little goodie bag Cathy hands him as he checks into the Tech department. 

“What are you doing for New Years?” Cathy asks while Craig opens the little package. It has a few pieces of Hershey’s chocolate kisses, a $5 lottery ticket, and four mini bottles of Grey Goose vodka. It’s perfect in every way, which makes Craig self conscious about his gift only being a $25 gift card. 

Craig shrugs, his attention focused on popping a chocolate kiss in his mouth. 

“Do you want to come to a game night at my house? We’re short one player.” Cathy explains, sliding the gift card in her wallet. 

“What kind of game?” 

“Bunco.” 

Craig unwraps another chocolate, thinking. He’s heard that game before, but where. He can’t remember.

“I don’t have any other plans, so sure.” Again, he shrugs, settling the bag under his jacket to hide the alcoholic contents. Cathy offers her address through a promised text, and with that, the conversation shifts as the day begins for them. 

It’s not a bad day, busy in the beginning but the afternoon drags as less and less people zoom through the aisles. There’s not much to do in the Tech department, no one really needs help besides with the video game case. Mostly Cathy and Craig talk about holiday plans, with Craig not wanting to think about Clyde coming over for dinner. So instead he pries for more information about the woman Cathy is spending the evening with. According to Cathy, it’s not what Craig thinks, but he’s happy for her regardless. 

Eventually the clock reaches 5, and the store closes. Everyone around them is eager to leave, the majority of closing duties having been done before the actual closing time. A few people wish Craig a Merry Christmas, and he gives them the same sentiment with a nod and a wave. 

As soon as Craig walks in, the sizzling sound from the kitchen triggers his stomach to grumble. He didn’t realize how hungry he is until now. Makes sense, all he’s had today was a coffee from Starbucks. Craig makes his way into the kitchen, eager to see what’s on the menu; a crown roasted rack of lamb in the oven, and pan seared asparagus on the stove. Waiting in the fridge is a fresh salad. His mother informs him that Clyde and his father are bringing a side dish and dessert.

“Do you want any help?” Craig asks his mom, sneaking an asparagus off the stove. It burns his fingers, but he doesn’t really care. 

“No, everything is almost done. I made a small charcuterie board, can you take it out in twenty minutes?” Laura Tucker says as she checks the lamb rack in the oven. She’s wearing an apron over the same red dress she used to wear during the holidays, before the divorce. 

Craig decides to spend his 20 minutes changing into something more comfortable. Essentially he’s wearing the same thing, a sweater and jeans, but at least these colors compliment his eyes and don’t remind him of the numbing customer service job he holds. Wanting to feel a little more refined, he wears a white collared shirt under his deep blue sweater, and sprays a mist of cologne on his chest. 

Before heading back down stairs, Craig texts his sister a quick “ _Miss you, hope work doesn’t suck _” and pockets his phone, knowing she won’t respond for several hours.__

The charcuterie board is simple, but looks immaculate. The cured meat pinwheeled into small circles, the fruit arranged neatly around the meat, and centered with goat cheese glazed in a drizzle of honey. Craig has half a mind to take the board for himself on the sofa, and mindlessly eat it while watching whatever stupid holiday movie is on. Instead though, he takes the board to the table and arranges it next to the bread and assortment of crackers. 

Soon enough, there’s a knock at the door, signaling the Donovan’s arrival. Both are dressed warmly in different colored flannel, Clyde in red and his father in green. It’s snowing outside when Craig opens the door. 

“Merry Christmas!” Roger cheers joyously, clasping Craig’s shoulder with one hand, the other cradling a ceramic baking dish like a swaddled baby. He walks past Craig heartily, making his way to the kitchen, presumably to put the dish down, but Craig has a feeling Roger is more excited to see his mother. 

Clyde walks in behind his father, a small basket wrapped in white linen in his hands. His cheeks and nose are red, but he’s smiling all the same. Instead of the zealous greeting his father had cheered, Clyde simply breathes a “Hey”, his voice a little shaky from the cold.

“What’s in the basket?” Craig asks, eyeing it. 

“It’s _Kerststol _. I made them using my mom’s recipe.” Clyde explains, opening the linen a little. Inside the basket are oval shaped breads with dots all over them, Craig assumes it’s raisins, and sugar dusted on the top. Craig hums, and leads the two of them into the kitchen so Clyde can set the basket down.__

Roger is in the kitchen, complimenting Craig’s mom on her cooking. Laura laughs, saying a meek “Oh this is nothing”, earning another compliment from Roger. Craig ignores them, in favor of focusing on the charcuterie board. Clyde takes a seat next to Craig and the two have the same idea, reaching for the pinwheels of meat. Clyde retreats his hand, nodding for Craig to take the first piece. 

“How was your day?” Clyde breaks the silence first. He always does. 

“I worked. What did you do?” Craig says with a shrug, spreading some of the goat cheese on a wheat cracker. He appreciates Clyde’s embrace of the embarrassment surrounding small talk. Although by this point there really isn’t too much embarrassment between them. 

“My dad and I spent the whole day cooking. It was a lot of fun. I’m not really a good cook, but neither is my dad, but I think I did a good job with baking.” 

Clyde rambles, and Craig is content to listen. It’s always been like this, Clyde knowing when to take the lead. He talks animatedly, about something funny that happened at the shop. Craig shares a story about a particularly shitty customer.

“Hey, do you remember when we had that snowball fight, but instead of snow, it iced over and you gave me a black eye?” Clyde laughs, changing the subject as he butters one of the rolls with the goat cheese. 

Craig looks down at the grape in his hand, smiling at the memory. 

“Dude, I felt so bad.”

“Yeah, but I looked kind of cool, right?” Clyde laughs again, muffled by his mouth full of bread.

“Clyde, you cried for like two hours. You thought your eye socket broke.” Craig tries to keep his tone flat, swallowing the laugh he wants to share. 

“You threw a ball of ice at me, of course I thought my eye was broken!”

Something about their conversation feels right, the two of them munching away, reminiscing at old memories. Through their conversation, their chairs become situated more close than before, Clyde’s knee practically touching Craig’s. Clyde is smiling, laughing at whatever dry, sarcastic thing Craig has to say. 

Craig doesn’t feel defensive, in fact, he feels relaxed the more Clyde laughs. Clyde’s cheeks are still red, but Craig thinks it suits him. His flannel fits in all the right places, the sleeves are tight wrapped up on his forearm, Craig has to force himself to stop staring. 

_This is how thanksgiving should have gone _, Craig can’t help but think, feeling his gut churn.__

The first time Craig realized he had a crush on Clyde, it was similar to this situation. The two of them were in Craig’s backyard, it was the 4th of July, the sun had just finished setting. They both had sparklers in their hands, Craig drew a dick with the sparks and Clyde laughed so hard he snorted. 

Although their entire friend group was there, it felt like only the two of them sharing a laugh over something childish and stupid. After hearing Clyde snort, Craig’s heart sank. He felt the impulse to kiss him.

It was a horrible realization. 

They’re technically alone now, with their parents occupied in the kitchen. Craig feels that same inclination now, eyeing Clyde’s honey coated lips. His stomach flops again, hard, and suddenly the slice of salami in his fingers tastes sour. 

Instead of feeling nauseated sober, he excuses himself to the bathroom. The bathroom in question, just so happens to be his bedroom where the alcohol is. He makes himself a quick shot, in one of the Dixie paper cups he stole from the actual bathroom. The paper flavor mixing with the straight vodka is disgusting, but it’ll do for now.

Craig takes a good look at himself in the full body mirror hanging off his closet door. All his imperfections glare back at him; sunken, dark eye circles and wrinkles from constant frowning. He doesn’t want to feel this way, the same way he felt as a brace-faced 15 year old, hung up over an unattainable crush. He doesn’t want the memories of years past, all the maybes and what if’s, clouding his vision. Craig clenches his jaw and closes his eyes, hoping the booze will help in any way. 

With a thick swallow, Craig downs one more paper flavored shot of vodka, and makes his way back down stairs. His mother has set the table, the dinner presented perfectly. Laura sits at the head of the table, Roger and Clyde on either side, leaving the remaining end seat for Craig. Once seated, the two adults begin grace, holding each other’s hands. Craig keeps his fatigued eyes open, and on his food, his hands touching the bare minimum of contact required while his mother prays. 

Craig has barely an appetite now, which really sucks, because he is hungry. The food looks and smells amazing, there just isn’t any motivation in him left to bring the fork to his mouth. Craig looks over at his mother; she’s lost in conversation with Roger. He wonders how many holidays they’ve spent together and if she would have told him about their odd relationship, had he not moved back home. He doesn’t think she would. 

“Hey, do you want any of the _Stamppot _?”__

The ceramic pot in Clyde’s hand is pushed in Craig’s peripheral vision, drawing him out of the prospect of Roger as a step-father. He looks over at Clyde, his brain not really understanding what Clyde is asking. Surely that wasn't English. 

Clyde, seeming to pick up on Craig’s confusion, opens the little dish, to reveal its contents; 

“It’s mashed potatoes mixed with, like, carrots, kale, and some peas.” 

Craig scoops a bit out of the warm dish, and onto his plate next to the asparagus. 

“ _Stamppot _is this traditional Dutch Christmas dish. You’re supposed to put it down first and then put meat on top.” Clyde continues to explain, filling his spoon up with some of the juice from the lamb crown. Craig watches Clyde do this a couple of times, drizzling the bloody juice over the lamb resting on the mashed potatoes. “My mom used to make it.”__

Instead of doing what Clyde does, Craig continues staring at his food. Eventually he does humor Clyde and eats part of the lamb in the same forkful as some of the potatoes, mimicking the tradition. Craig catches Clyde smiling at him, but Clyde could just be smiling because he has starchy carbs in his mouth. Craig can’t tell. 

The dinner isn’t too awkward for everyone else, with Roger pulling Clyde into the conversation he’s having with Laura. Craig interjects every now and again, usually when Roger says something factually incorrect. He never regains that same spirit he had in the beginning, before his insecurities fell over him, like a wet blanket. But correcting Roger makes him feel just a little bit better, and the annoyed look his mother gives him is just as sweet. 

Once everyone finishes their plates, Laura clears the table, with Craig and Roger getting up to help almost instantly. Craig stalls, looking over to Roger, who’s handing the dirty dishes to Laura. Craig’s mother stacks them in the sink, spraying off the stuck pieces. It’s uncomfortable watching the two, almost like looking into a parallel universe.

Most holidays, Craig remembers his mother, cleaning by herself, scowling as she scrubs the grime off the special holiday platters. His father would be in the living room, beer in his hand and a blank look of disinterest. There wasn’t much conversation between his parents, not like now. His mother is laughing as she scrubs, Roger doing some weird impression as he wipes the fresh dishes with a rag to dry them. 

“Weird right?” 

Craig hears from behind him. He turns his head, his dirty plate still in his hands, to see Clyde standing there. He’s also watching their parent’s interaction. Craig can’t really tell what sort of look Clyde has, it’s not jealousy, and not resentment. Craig on the other hand, harbors both of those feelings, although in small amounts. 

The four of them work together, cleaning the kitchen; Roger and Laura by the sink, and Clyde helping Craig with the leftovers. Craig remains somewhat quiet, but so does Clyde.

Once cleaned up, Roger thanks Laura again for dinner, complimenting her “excellent culinary skills”. In the living room, he and Clyde get ready to leave, the two of them putting their coats on. It’s not really late, but Craig is happy to see they don’t intend on dragging this night out. 

Laura and Roger walk to the foyer, talking about whatever. Craig lingers back with Clyde, not really wanting to hear what his mother is giggling at. 

“I got you something.” Craig says off handedly, looking down at his shoes. It wasn’t really anything special, he was never a good gift giver anyway. He hands Clyde a card, this one he made with the help of his mom. Clyde beams, moving to rip the envelope, but Craig stops him. 

“It’s not Christmas morning yet.” Craig makes up the excuse. The real reason is he doesn’t want to watch Clyde’s excitement deflate when he realizes the only thing in the card is a stupid short message and a sad gift card to Home Depot. Clyde pauses, he looks like he doesn’t want to, but complies with Craig’s request.

“I left your gift by the tree.” Clyde says, smiling. They share a look, it’s quick, cut short by Roger calling Clyde over. Clyde’s mouth twitches, like he wants to say something, but stops. Instead, he walks over to the front door, and waves at Craig before leaving. Craig watches as his mother closes the door, and that’s the end of the evening. 

“So you’re really not fucking Clyde’s dad?” Craig asks, just as his mother re-enters the living room. She stops midstep, her innocent smile now replaced with an annoyed, dead stare. 

“Really Craig?” 

She’s walking past him, back to the kitchen. 

“I’m just wondering.” Craig justifies, following her. She hands him a wine glass, and uncorks the good dessert wine. It’s almost amber in color, and sweet like caramel. Craig’s favorite part is how high the alcohol percent is. 

“We’re just friends.” She sighs, drinking straight from the bottle after Craig’s glass is poured. 

“So you and Clyde seem to be getting along together again.” She changes the subject. As someone who does this himself when faced with a difficult topic, Craig can’t judge. He merely hums in response, drinking the thick wine.

“It’s okay if you are. You seem happy with him.” Craig says, turning to leave the kitchen, not wanting to face his mom. She doesn’t respond, and Craig doesn’t expect her to. He walks over to their shitty small tree, and picks up the little wrapped box that has his name on it. Craig takes his drink, and the gift Clyde wrapped him, up to his room. 

Now seated at his desk, and door closed, curiosity gets the better part of him, and he carefully unfolds the taped edges of wrapping paper to reveal a little wooden box. Presumably, Craig imagines Clyde made this box. It’s about the size of a small jewelry box, and a nice dark briar color. 

Opening the small brass latch, the box contains a small note, Craig sets that to the side revealing folded photo sleeves. There’s a couple of old polaroids in the photo sleeves, photos Craig distinctly remember, because he’s the one who took them. All the photos are of Clyde and Craig, from different points in their senior year of high school. 

Leading the pictures is a photo of them the summer before their senior year, they’re both in their swim trunks at the lake. The next picture is of their last Halloween, where they decided to revamp their old superhero costumes, Mosquito and Super Craig. Then there’s a picture of them at homecoming, the cows had just won and Craig is standing next to Clyde on the field, Clyde still sweaty in his football jersey. There’s a couple of their spring break pictures in Denver, it was their first trip without their parents. The last picture is them at prom. Clyde and Bebe were on a break, leading Clyde to go stag with Craig. 

In most of the pictures they’re hugging or sharing some form of physical contact. Craig can’t really remember the last time he touched Clyde purposely. It had to have been at Clyde’s wedding, but even then, Craig had to really force himself to look composed in those photos. 

Craig folds the photo sleeves back together, and picks up the note he set aside.

_Hey, I found these old pictures of us, and I thought you’d like them, since you’re into photos and stuff. Don’t worry, I made copies, so we can both have them! I really miss when we were this close, and maybe it’s because I’m a sappy loser, but I hope we can take pictures like these again. Anyway, Merry Christmas.  
-Clyde D. ___

Craig doesn’t realize his hands are shaky, until he reaches for his wine, and nearly knocks it over. He lets a long breath shoot out through his gritted teeth. After a moment, he folds the note back up, and latches the box closed. 

“I fucking hate Christmas.” Craig says to no one but himself. 

—

It’s a quiet evening when Craig gets out of work, with the snow barely falling. The time between Christmas and New Year’s Eve never really feels real. Like a weird limbo time, where no one really knows what to do with themselves. There wasn’t anyone in the store today, most people either working or staying in visiting with relatives. 

It’s the perfect time to beg Tweek for his forgiveness. Again. There’s still about two hours before the shop closes when Craig pulls up. Looking through the window, it appears there’s no one inside the coffee shop, and lucky enough Craig sees Tweek wiping down one of the tables. He grips the little strings of the same stupid snowman bag from before, but now filled fresh tissue paper. Inside, at the bottom of the bag lays another card, this time written a little more heartfelt. Incase he needs to leave, the note could at least apologize for him. 

Craig walks in, the jingle of the door alarm sends Tweek jumping upright from the table. 

“Wel-“ 

Tweek cuts his greeting short, as he immediately recognizes Craig once facing the entryway. Tweek groans, throwing the towel down on the table and reaching up for his hair with his other hand.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Tweek questions, sounding exasperated. He ranks his fingers against his scalp, unable to tug on his short hair. 

“I just want to talk dude.”

Craig hangs back by the door, hesitant. He feels like an intruder. 

“Oh so, now you want to talk after, like, ten years of nothing.” 

Ouch. Craig clenches his jaw, instead of rolling his eyes. He leans against the door, Tweek keeping by the table. 

“It’s been eight years, not ten. Better late than never.” Craig tries not to be sarcastic. It’s not really his fault his voice naturally sounds like that. Tweek huffs in response, not really impressed with Craig’s shitty excuse.

“This is for you.” Craig tries again, shifting his weight into his legs and off the door. He holds out the bag filled with sweets. Tweek doesn’t move, but Craig can see his curiosity is peaked, his green eyes flicking between the bag and Craig. 

“I don’t want that. What if you put a snake in there?” Tweek folds his arms and looks away, childishly. 

“Why would I put a snake in here?” Craig sighs, his arm falling back to his side, the bag bumping against his leg. 

“Because, well. I don’t know. But you could have.” Tweek continues to ramble. He groans again, picking at his hands. “Are you going to buy something or not?” 

“If I buy something, will you talk to me?” 

“I don’t know. Maybe.” 

“Fine.”

The two walk to the front, and Tweek pulls himself together enough to get behind the counter. Neither of them look at each other. Craig orders a latte, not really in the mood for anything else. Truthfully, he doesn’t even want this coffee. 

“Don’t spit in it.” Craig half jokes, pulling out some cash from his wallet. 

“Ew, dude! Why would I do that?” Tweek asks, looking disgusted while reaching for Craig’s cash. 

“I don’t know, I’m just joking.” Craig sighs, dumping his change in the tip jar.

“If I spit in your drink, I’d probably lose my job. And maybe I’d get arrested for tampering with food. Or I could give you some disease that I didn’t know I had.” Tweek rambles, his hands shake as he pours the milk. 

“Tweek, you don’t have any diseases. Also do I have to remind you we used to make out?” 

This time Craig does roll his eyes. Craig has noticed, through the two times they’ve spoken this month, that Tweek’s outbursts are more few and far between, but at the mention of their past relationship, Tweek startles. 

It’s never been that taboo of a subject for them, but Craig supposes things have changed over their years apart. Tweek hands Craig his latte, it’s a little too milky for Craig’s liking. Finally they look at each other, but it’s only a glance, before their eyes avert; Tweek’s in anger, and Craig’s in embarrassment. 

“Look Tweek-” Craig stops as the door opens, the little jingle from the door affectingly killing the words in Craig’s throat. They both turn to see who’s walked in, though Craig isn’t sure why he felt compelled to do so. Walking in, is someone who clearly belongs here, as he walks right to the counter, side eyeing the two of them.

“Hey, it’s a bit cold out.” 

The guys says to Tweek, again looking from the bag in Craig’s hand to Tweek. Craig reaches for his milky latte, and steps to the side, fearing he may be putting off a customer. The guy doesn’t order anything, but simply stands there, like he’s waiting. Craig eyes him up, he seems normal enough; wearing a simple winter outfit, and hat. On his wrist sits a snug Apple Watch, in space gray. 

_Oh._

__Craig turns to Tweek, finally now in the loop with the situation. He sets the stupid peace offering on the counter, and grabs his stupid latte._ _

__“Look dude, I wrote my number on the card that’s in the bag. Just give me a call, I have some things I want to say to you.”_ _

__Without waiting for a reply, thinking he likely won’t be getting one, Craig turns to walk out. The contrast of cool night air soothes the burning he feels under his hoodie. On the drive home, Craig has an odd feeling Tweek won’t be calling him._ _

__Craig lies to himself, telling himself Tweek will come around. _It’s only fair _. He had hoped Tweek would be more understanding, but it seems like the window of time to apologize has closed. All he can do now is wait._ _ __


End file.
